The next morning, Sherlock woke with an unusually dry mouth and an unnerving headache even before the wake up call. He tried to get back to sleep, feeling unrested and exhausted, but to his annoyance his scalp itched and he couldn't find sleep again due to that.
The distant noises of the carers getting reading for the morning routine added to that. He stayed in bed since the room was unpleasantly cold. After a few minutes of lying awake the ghosts of some weird dreams drifted into his mind. No matter how much he tried to remember details of the nightmares, they lingering just beyond his reach.
During the getting up routine, he tried to hide his mood, aware he was observed by more than one carer today. It was quite exhausting, but not very successful.
All he wanted was to lie in bed with his eyes closed. Everything else was just too much to handle.
Whenever he was left to his own devices for a few minutes he found himself lost, staring into nothingness. He was overwhelmed with just existing. Felt so depressed and down he actually noticed it himself, had to kick himself hard to execute any action – mental as well as physical. This made breakfast quite an ordeal.
It had happened before, in hospital, when he seemed to be done with saving John. When the days of drug induced euphoria and madness were finally over and he felt suddenly overwhelmingly empty, as if all purpose was gone. The feeling had returned with a vengeance.
While he stared at the bread on the plate in front of him, he tried to remind himself that saving John wasn't over. Greg had reminded him of that, had told him that John still needed saving. He had to return to real life to actually do it.
But that life seemed so far away, was so hard to focus on now.
Was it true? Had he just stopped to try to save John? Given up before the finish line?
The thought made him feel even more out of his turf and lost than already.
Doing things right with John seemed an unreachable goal.
Additionally, he had started to ask himself it the goal was even real.
What he had perceived as reality was slipping further and further away from him.
Which of his realities was even real?
The asylum was all he had experienced in days and everything else seemed to drift away from him. His bleak reality was this institution now.
To his frustration, the staff didn't give him a break.
The carers tried to make him socialise the moment breakfast was over, even asked him to go outside. On one hand, he was glad they weren't sending him off to work, on the other, he felt even unable to face the unfamiliar space of the inner courtyard.
When he didn't go by himself, they tried to 'encourage' him by bringing him to dayroom, but he must have looked so horrified about being there again, they finally allowed him to just sit in one of the armchairs in the hallway where they could have an eye on him.
.
Mid-morning, he was told that he would be seen by his doctor in half an hour. He was relieved, because he expected to get a chance to explain that it was all a mistake.
However, Dr Rubenstein didn't give him much opportunity to talk and informed him no nonsense that he had been committed due to an acute endangerment of self and others because he had attacked his friend as well as passersby.
Of course, the first thing Sherlock asked was if 'his friend' was all right, assuming it was Watson. The question was ignored even after he urged for an answer, which unsettled him. He then explained that he couldn't remember how he got here, but Rubenstein made it clear he didn't believe him.
The fact that an against-his-will institutionalisation had – even in this era – to be signed by a physician suddenly jumped into the forefront of his mind and he asked who had provided the document.
"Two independently from each other doctors have agreed on your condition. Their signatures are in the file," Rubenstein stated slowly.
Sherlock demanded to see them but the other man refused, pointing out that he was known to turn every fact into a truth of his own to fit his deceptions.
Sherlock couldn't believe Watson would ever sign a paper like that, which meant he either hadn't been present or had been incapacitated somehow. Or maybe someone had done it simply without asking Watson.
The second message – that he turned every fact to his own liking, derailed his thoughts even more.
"I was informed your wounds are slow to heal. I expect you to eat properly and behave from now on."
When had he misbehaved?
Did they deem last night 'misbehaviour'?
It was surely failure on his part that he hadn't been able to hide his distress, but...
"You are suffering from acute mania, Mr Greenberg," the doctor interrupted his thoughts.
The words had the mental impact of a verbal missile.
Sherlock felt his body start to tingle and a few moments later cold sweat added to his discomfort.
"Of course this very state makes you oblivious to your condition," the man continued. "Mania is easy to diagnose because it contrasts strongly with other mental illnesses."
"And how did you gather those information?" Sherlock asked carefully, seeking for a way to argue against it and to find out more about his admission.
"Besides our own educated opinion we doctors rely on the opinions of family and friends. Their reports are in the files, too, carefully collected by your doctor."
"I want to speak with to him," Sherlock demanded.
"There is no need for that. But I see that you need to have this explained to you so you can understand," he made a short pause after this belittling remark, "People close to you reported that you suffer from uncontrollable, prolonged passion as well as a turbulent mind. You barely sleep, which we had the chance to observe here already. Your family states that you speak frantically and often it is accompanied by wild gesturing. You are a torrent of ideas and actions, which is expressed by free-flowing language. You have issues with beddings or clothes and tend to... not use them."
Sherlock's mind grinded to a halt.
He did all of that – of course he did.
However, it wasn't a symptom. And mania was just a melting pot for all that was misunderstood about mental illness in the 19th century. It was far from being a proper diagnosis in his understanding, just nonsense, a word with little valid content.
When Sherlock kept quiet, the doctor continued.
"The state of excitement characterises the disease."
From Sherlock's point of view, this man was not a trained psychologist, he just used the Victorian Era defined sense of behaviour standards to fit him into the limited range of diagnoses the scientists of the time had come up with, which were mostly odd and ridiculous. Although horrifyingly, still the basis for too many believes present in the 21st century. It was alarming how many Victorian things were after all the foundation of how people thought. The era had influenced more things the average modern being ever realised.
"I'm nothing of that," Sherlock protested, well aware that his behaviour did match the description - a lot more than he liked. But he had displayed them in modern times, at home. The only one aware of them in this era would be John, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, who he trusted not to have leaked any of this.
"Not at this very moment, but you were before you were brought here. What your doctor and friends described fits exactly the typical signs for mania," the man repeated, as if to hammer it home.
"Once mania has settled and turned chronic, the acute symptoms are joined by others: the patient may try to dissolve the accrued energies any way he deems necessary. For example by fighting, singing or moving. Eventually, the maniac is so exhausted that he is only a ghost of his former self, which is your current state, Mr Greenberg. You are very exhausted and in a poor state as a result."
"I would describe my issues as melancholia," Sherlock stated, looking the man in the eyes, which took a lot of effort. In his opinion, that described his current issues way better than anything else. He was aware that he was depressed. Keeping the dark thoughts at bay was something he had to work on every minute of every day. That was why he was so exhausted – in addition to the withdrawal of course.
"No," the doctor disagreed. "Sufferers of melancholia are able to describe both, the causes and the symptoms of their disease. Most of them regularly articulate how unworthy their lives are."
"I am just not very capable of expressing my emotions," Sherlock contradicted, "and was raised not to wallow in self-pity."
"It is true that the melancholic can successfully disguise their insanity, but that is not the case with you. If at all, you are a manic with melancholic tendencies."
The expression and tone of the doctor clearly indicated that Sherlock had stepped over a boundary by expressing his own opinion. Rubenstein was probably thinking of himself as unerring. Sherlock had already observed the strikingly obvious hierarchy this institution was governed by.
"Recent events hint that there might also be monomania present, which is characterised by one solitary falsehood that is taken as a truth. You seem to be living under the illusion to be a famous detective. Your file hints at this problem, though monomania was not yet diagnosed. We will rectify that omission in the upcoming weeks."
Sherlock's heart sank.
"Monomania can include full sensory hallucinations. The illness can fixate on real beings or delusions. To the layman, the monomaniac appears normal at first sight. He talks about his delusions in a most orderly and mannered way, which perfectly fits your behaviour. Since intellect and reasoning are not affected by the disease, many months of careful observation might be necessary to prove its presence," the man lectured Sherlock, "Monomania is a rather new diagnosis, and it might be that you were suffering from mania before and recovered but are now suffering from monomania... or that your doctor was simply unaware of monomania and misdiagnosed therefore."
Shocked into silence, Sherlock said nothing. From an odd ivory tower perspective this made sense. Just that with his background knowledge this was complete nonsense.
"I am glad to tell you this can be cured. Assumed you work with us and take an active part in your recovery." Rubenstein picked up his monocle and pinned it onto his nose, then moved around a few of the handwritten notes, studying them. "It says here, your sophomoric fantasies have badly affected - even ruined - several lives. Family and friends are suffering greatly from your lack of employment and pretence to work for the police."
Another remark that hit Sherlock with unexpected force.
"You will understand therefore, that we cannot permit family and friends to suffer even more from your delusions... or allow them to hamper your recovery, especially not this early in your treatment. You can correspond with them if you wish. Maybe we will allow carefully checked visitors later."
"Will you also check my correspondence carefully?" Sherlock asked, frustrated now.
"Of course."
The blatant honesty surprised Sherlock. His motivation to seek a dialogue about his admission being a mistake was completely gone. If everything he uttered or did was turned against him, it would serve him better to remain silent.
"You are lucky to have people who care for you this deeply. Your friend brought you here and arranged care for your other friend after your attack."
Had he really hurt someone?
Who?
With growing desperation, he tried to remember. But the memories were still very vague, there had been a fight… loud voices... hands on him. The few details that had come back earlier were not making a lot of sense and still the only ones.
What he clearly remembered, though, was that something had been pressed over his mouth, which consequently sent him into panic mode. The horrible memories of slowly losing consciousness when Culverton Smith chocked him were alarmingly intense the moment anything reminded him of the event. He was aware that this was a mental scar of his own making, it was unsettling nevertheless.
"You are in a single room because we feared that we need to protect the other patients from your outbursts. A fear that was confirmed yesterday evening. Your episode was quite violent."
"It had nothing to do with mania..." Sherlock protested, almost saying it was just a withdrawal-induced hallucination, but that was the wrong word to say and he changed course. "Nothing! It was a panic attack. I suffer from those because my thoughts drift back to bad experiences from my recent past."
It was a half-truth he offered, nevertheless, he was flabbergasted about his own honesty.
"Of course," the doctor agreed. "You were moaning one word, asking for one person in your delirium, again and again. John. What John might that be?"
"My best friend. His wife died. I am very grieved," Sherlock offered, feeling oddly vulnerable to admit it. "It is one of the reasons for my melancholia," he added, making one last try to convince the man's to reconsider his opinion.
"What business is his wife to you?" the doctor frowned.
"She too was a friend," Sherlock tried carefully.
"And why were you asking for him?"
Sherlock couldn't remember at all having done that.
"He has often helped me in the past when I was poorly," he stated, careful not to mention the name Watson or that he was a doctor.
"Our hospital is a modern institution. Here, you will be treated with kindness and care," Rubenstein suddenly changed the course of the conversation. "The moral regime is the bedrock of our asylum life. Our first goal is to remove the patient from the immediate cause of illness. This is a refuge from the evils of society. We subject patients only to uplifting, healthy forces, which are palliative and curative. The cornerstones of recovery are physical activity, routine, daily occupation, regular meals, and plenty of fresh air," the doctor explained and it sounded like a memorized text he had cited countless times before.
Although Sherlock was sure that the intention to help was probably an honest one, he was convinced that the reality of life in an institution like this was a different thing.
He was aware that the times in which inmates had been chained to walls without clothing or any facilities, rotting away in their own dirt were in the past. Things like these had happened in the early 19th century. Back then, the insane were considered wild animals and not held morally responsible, kept in madhouses in appalling conditions, neglected and beaten.
The 'moral treatment movement' changed that. In the beginning, it was opposed by members of the mental health profession. The 1840s non-restraint-movement changed how asylums were run. By the mid-19th century many psychologists had adopted the strategy. The 1845 lunatic asylum act made it law to treat people like human beings. Lunatics were no longer seen as prisoners but as patients and treated with more respect. At that time, a great belief of the curability of mental disorders was present.
The newly invented treatments were supposed to influence or alternate a patient's behaviour patterns by occupation, leisure, and interaction, something modern psychology still used in a way.
As always in life, Sherlock knew that things hadn't changed immediately even after they were made law. It was not all black and white, humane and inhumane treatment of patients continued to exist side by side.
He had landed himself in an era in which science was only starting to try to understand mental illness and find treatments. The moral treatment certainly was a step in the right direction but was designed for small country retreats, neither for overcrowded nor industrial-like institutions, which caused a lot of problems. This meant that mental health patients were still just taken off the streets and stored under bad circumstances in overflowing institutions. The logistics and realities of providing custody and care would sooner or later defeat the attempt, it was only a matter of time, the detective knew from history books.
The lack of real treatments would sooner or later lead to growing pessimism about the possibility to successfully heal the insane. An issue that was still fiercely debated in the 21st century.
"Your family and friends tried to provide care and help as best as they could," the doctor interrupted the stream of facts that his mind regurgitated, "but your issues finally became so intense, it made you an unbearable burden. We want to help you to be a valuable member of society again."
In a normal state this would have just bounced off Sherlock, but in his current depressed and hopeless mood the remark cut deep.
Had even mind palace John needed a break from him and his antics, and had therefore given up on him?
Was it just his wishful thinking that he tried to find a case where there was none?
Were all the deaths he had investigated not related, just a coincidence?
Used by him to keep himself from living through his failed existence?
To keep himself distracted?
Running away?
He knew he needed John in his life, now that he had tasted companionship.
The recent events confronted him with the nagging fear that the desire for a companionship on John's side was gone.
He was a burden to his friend.
Although he had done so much, had archived so much information about what John needed, he could never be what the man really wanted.
John desired a family, a wife, love and being loved - by them.
That goal had been destroyed, and it was Sherlock's fault.
Only the drugs in his system had enabled him to make cocky remarks and get through with his plan to ask him to solve the Culverton Smith case with him. It was a very pathetic and stupid way to try to force John into it, he was ashamed of it in hindsight.
Had he been less stoned, he might have managed to do it in a way that John might actually have excepted.
But he had only been a dumb arse, fallen back into the old patterns.
He was unable to communicate like others, feel like others, and interact with others in a way that didn't damage them. He was not capable of providing something positive. His ever so brilliant mind was no help. In fact, he had recently - finally - understood that there was no benefit from being brilliant. It was nothing but a burden.
Anyway, he wasn't brilliant any longer. So it didn't matter that John was not fond of it any more.
Details evaded him, conclusions hid from his mind, logical exclusion failed, and he was even slower when it came to thinking than the average human being. His reaction time was beyond hope, as was his workmanship.
He was useless.
Life without John wasn't the same. Solving cases without him was boring and unsatisfying.
Obviously, John didn't feel the same.
Maybe the reason why he was here was that his subconsciousness wanted to punish him for all the flaws in his character, his failures and his miscalculations.
"Mr Greenberg!"
He flinched, the booming voice echoed through the high ceiling room and reverberated in his every bone.
"Finally back with me?" the doctor asked impatiently when Sherlock's frown met his gaze.
The detective gulped, dazed by his realisations. He turned his head away in a desperate try to quell the onslaught of emotions that followed the insights.
"You seem to have problems focussing on tasks, as you have just demonstrated. There's also lethargy that ails you. But do not worry, our excellent treatment will cast that out. We will do the same with your tendency to be irritable and aggressive. Do you wish to add anything to this list of issues that we might have overlooked?" the man added in an arrogant tone.
Sherlock shook his head, having lost all his energy to speak. He knew enough about psychology to gather that Rubenstein was way too arrogant to consider anything Sherlock might suggest. The only thing that would happen was that he was punished by even more bashing.
Many things the man had listed were the immediate effects of his meth withdrawal and Sherlock was very aware of them, just the conclusions were obviously wrong, but as a stupid patient, he had no footing trying to explain to a taught scholar what was really happening. Whatever John might say about this, he had actually learned from his mistakes during Moriarty's trial. He remembered the judge who had not been pleasantly surprised by the disclosures Sherlock had offered. The result was a night in a cell in the same building as Moriarty, he had been degraded to the level of an annoying criminal.
That had been quite a reality check. Although it had felt like being scolded like a stupid child, it had also shown him more of those disturbingly unexplained invisible lines adults were not supposed to cross, no matter how important the outcome.
What he had already learned in his youth was that most people in high and powerful positions were so engrossed in their own ego they had low tolerance of others being more intelligent or of being proven wrong. For some silly reason, he tried to prove them wrong nevertheless, somehow ignoring that knowledge, hoping against hope that they were intelligent enough to value the facts more than their own opinion. Some aspect of him remained ignorant of the fact that he wouldn't change anything, no matter how true the facts he represented were.
Rubenstein loudly cleared his throat and Sherlock flinched, realising he had lost himself in his own musings once more.
A moment later, he was ushered out of the room, and being advised to show his best behaviour if he wanted to be treated well.
He found himself standing alone in the corridor, staring at the wall, trying to understand the meaning of what had just happened.
He felt even worse than before.
All his hopes to find help to right this were gone. He would rot here until they had brainwashed him and he had completely lost himself.
.
.
If you like my work, feel free to make my day by leaving a review.