Chapter 26

Disruption Part 7

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Since it seems the passing of time might be a bit confusing, I want to point out that the timeline of the asylum and 2016 happen parallel to each other, but as in TAB, time in the mind palace is passing faster.
2016 Sherlock being distressed in the hospital is the mirror action of Sherlock freaking out in the asylum dayroom in chapter 21. It is sometimes necessary to finish an action in the Victorian era before switching to 2016, therefore things can happen with a bit of chapters in between. I tried to point out the landmarks that happen in both timelines but maybe I am not doing a good job.
If this is too confusing, tell me.

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Later, Sherlock could neither remember how he got back to his room nor if anyone had picked him up and brought him there. His memory ended shortly after he had staggered out of the doctor's office, his mind fragmented into a weird mixture of panic, hopelessness and devastation.

The next thing he knew, he found himself staring outside his room's window, down into the wide area of the outer airing courts, those that apparently had no access from his ward.

The first thing he registered after that he was suddenly back in his room was that his headache had worsened. The annoyance of his itchy scalp finally dragged him completely out of his stupor. He must have stood there for quite some time, he deduced when he finally moved, his protesting feet and knees a strong hint.

He winced and sat on the bed, trying to remember what exactly had happened in the past minutes. He must have been on autopilot for some time, felt the befogged after effect it left in its wake.

With stiff fingers, he started to massage his pericranium, shoved his hair back and forth to loosen it up. He hadn't had a chance to wash it properly since he had arrived and the remaining grease was making things worse. His hands came back oily and his hair was a complete mess. He felt it stand in all directions and cling to his head in spots.

He felt the sudden urge to wash it.

Now.

He grabbed his bar of soap and a towel and headed for the lavatories.

Halfway down the hall, he found he couldn't stand it any longer, started to run, afraid someone might interfere and make him go somewhere else. There were fewer people than usual in the hallway, some men moving cleaning - men in patient's uniforms. He was glad that they seemed to be in a hurry and ignored him.

With a humourless huffing giggle, he wondered if this too was occupational therapy.

In the bathroom, he threw the towel onto the basin the furthest away from the door, hidden by a separating wall. Then turned on the tap in the sink next to it, roughly pulled of his shirt. A button was ripped off due to his haste. The shirt landed on the floor.

He immediately pushed his head under the flow.

Panting, he just stood there, sensing the cold water on his scalp, his hands gripping the rim of the basin tight.

When the water finally turned warm, he flinched, quite surprised by something he knew would happen.

It was quite a luxury; running warm water was an exception in this decade. Only an institution as big as this could afford to have hot water cisterns. Sherlock assumed they were housed in the towers that overlooked the grounds. Somewhere, in one of the buildings, a lot of people were sweating firing the boilers. The wards were also heated by hot water radiators with ornamental gratings.

When the water became too warm, he adjusted the temperature and reached for the soap.

Even after washing and rinsing twice, he still felt the grease. He was tempted to do it a third time, but resisted the urge, aware that untangling it afterwards would be nasty – the more he scrubbed it ordinary soap, the worse combing will get.

Before he turned off the tab, he took a moment to just let the water run over his skull. Allow it to take away the discomfort. He took a few deep breaths, turned the water of and realised only then that his heart had been pounding intensely all the time and was now starting to calm down.

He blindly reached for the towel, wondering what had left him so agitated. Sure, the conversation with the doctor had made something snap, but that feeling was familiar.

While still trying to figure out the source of his distress, he wrapped the towel around his head.

Had he experienced an episode of dissociation earlier?

Was the need to get water over his head his body's try to drag him out of it?

Out of habit, he started to rub down his hair, then paused to think.

Not a good idea.

Without any products to make combing easier at hand, he should probably not do that.

The moment he rewrapped the towel around his head, he heard the door open behind the separating wall.

Hastily, he unwrapped his head again, not wanting anyone to see him like this.

Not here. John at home, fine - but not here.

He turned his back to the entrance and reached for the soap, pretending to wash his hands.

"Woah, Greenbaum, what are you doing?"

It was the person with the Scottish accent, who sat next to him during meals, the one who had briefly talked to him, advised him to eat.

"Washing my hands," Sherlock stated the obvious.

"It's mealtime, better get down there – now! I was already way too late... We'll get in trouble. And better let no one see you treat the fine garments lent to you this way." The man pointed at his blue uniform shirt on the ground.

Still a bit slow and not really getting it, Sherlock reached for it, shook it out and pulled it over his head without opening the buttons.

The Scot hastily washed his hands and headed back to the door.

When Sherlock didn't follow, he halted.

"Come on, what the hell are you waiting for? You don't want to get scourged, do you?"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes widened.

Was that supposed to be a joke?

"Hide the soap and make haste! It's 12:35," the man explained.

When Sherlock stood there dumbfounded, missing the point, the man rushed towards him, grabbed the wet bar of soap and the towel, bundled them up and stuffed them behind a small wooden supply cabinet in the corner.

Then he came back and grabbed Sherlock's arm, who still failed to understand what was going on, but he followed the man who let go of him the moment he started to move.

They hurried down empty stairs and into the dining room. Apparently, the grace had already been spoken and the stewards had started to serve the meal.

Hughes was standing in the doorway, staring at them angrily when they entered.

"I beg your pardon, sir. The new guy was lost and couldn't find his way down here," his saviour loudly whispered to Hughes. "Stumbled into him and helped him find his way. You know how it is; the new ones get lost all the time, all those corridors looking the same. You should paint them in different colours if you want people to be in time."

Sherlock tried to look even more confused than he still was, trying to look as if he had been helplessly lost.

"Sorry, Sir," he added ruefully. "I'll try to do better now."

"Alright, sit down and be quiet," Hughes hissed while briefly staring up at Sherlock's messy head. He didn't comment on it, he had probably already seen everything lunatics could come up with.

They hurried down the aisle towards their row and sat down.

"Wuh, that was lucky," the scot whispered when they were served their lunch. Unpeeled Potatoes and bread.

"If you are late they'll give you all sorts of nasty jobs to do. But that's the harmless punishment, there is worse," the man continued the moment the steward was out of range.

"Worse?" Sherlock echoed in a low voice.

"Yeah, you know, if you attack someone, you'll be chained to a wall or bathed in cold water or something..."

"I thought that were things of the past."

The Scottish man huffed. "They have all sorts of nasty 'treatments' that will 'help' you to behave 'normal'. Of course it's not 'punishment', it's treatment. But it will make you think twice before you let any issues show again."

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Sherlock had barely finished his meal when nurse Miller walked towards him. He expected questions about his odd appearance, but instead of that he uttered approval for Sherlock's first tries at socialising. Sherlock failed to respond, speechless from the surprise.

All he wanted to do was to go to his room, comb, and have a nap.

He soon found out his opinion was not in demand. Miller informed him that he was expected to go outside for taking some air.

Before Sherlock had the chance to even try to come up with a reason why he couldn't, Paterson offered to take him for a walk and show him around a bit.

They went upstairs to collect their jackets and when Sherlock tried to convince Paterson to leave him alone so that he could comb his hair, Paterson refused, assuring him they'd be punished for that, too.

For a moment Sherlock wondered if the man was in the asylum because of paranoia, but then decided to learn from him what he could but use that knowledge with caution until he had prove it was correct.

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Overall, the man had not been garrulous as long as they were inside, but the moment they were out of hearing range, he started talking a mile a minute – in a low voice.

It was mostly nonsense, rambling about the unseasoned food and the accommodation. Sherlock became irritated by the lack of context, felt as if he was coming late to a conversation that had been going on for hours.

"Excuse me," Sherlock interrupted, "Could we start again... from the beginning? I don't even know your name."

"Oh, so sorry my friend, I tend to get a bit excited sometimes. Paterson, the name is Paterson. I got yours already, Greenbaum."

Sherlock frowned. Something felt even more off about the name than before. He marked the diffuse inkling with a question mark, unable to grasp the facts, connect the dots. Most dots seemed to still run through his mental fingers like sand. He had been unnerved by it when Faith visited him in the flat, so much that he had even bothered to utter it. Although he was not consuming drugs any longer, the problem lingered.

When a group of three men walked by Sherlock tried to consciously receive anything without looking at their faces.

It took a moment, but to his relief he managed to perceive that one of them was suffering from nervous ticks and another from a stroke or some kind of head trauma in the recent past.

The facts were there – if he paid attention.

Why did he have the constant impression he was blinded because deductions weren't coming in on their own any longer?

Were they and his subconsciousness was just blocking them out?

After stopping the stimulants, it felt as if he had become unable to 'see', but at the moment it felt as if sensing was just muted but could be done if he really focussed.

Well, concentration was an issue...

Was that why he couldn't make sense of anything?

"... Greenbaum?"

Sherlock's mind tumbled back into the present. He was still walking.

People did that a lot recently, ripping him out of his thoughts. It was getting annoying.

Or maybe the better question was why did he space out like that so often?

"Could you..." the detective hesitated, "Could you call me William... or Will?... That is my first name."

"Sure, my dear fellow," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, beaming with pride. He was indeed at least fifteen years older than the detective. It took Sherlock a moment to remember that using a given name was only common for family or very close friends. He didn't care.

The inner courtyard was not as bleak as expected.

A wide circular path allowed patients to keep going and it would take probably almost an hour to do one round. On the sides of the paved trail there were ornamented benches and something that were probably flowerbeds in the summer. The squares were currently covered with evergreen branches to protect something underneath from the cold.

They slowly walked down the path and Paterson kept babbling about his next-door neighbour, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was engaged in cataloguing his surroundings, look for anything that might hint at loopholes. But the area was designed to keep people in. No trees or anything high enough to climb on, no doors, just high brick walls around an enclosed area. Additionally, there were no objects big enough so a person could hide.

His gaze fell upon an area under some small bushes, where snowdrops were in full bloom. He frowned.

"What date is it? Do you know?" he asked his companion.

"Well of course I do. I'm not one of the numb nuts that just exist here beyond time and place. They don't want people to be too aware, so they don't advertise the date. Half of the inmates in here aren't able to keep track anyway, or just don't care."

"So what date is it?" Sherlock urged.

"Wednesday, March 20th 1867. I am looking forward to Saturday; there will be meat suet pudding for dinner and later: evening entertainment."

The last date Sherlock remembered was from when he had read the newspaper on March 14th. It had been a Thursday. That had been the day when he and Watson had interviewed the landlord of the missing woman's mother and found out the mother was missing, too.

Sherlock staggered to a halt, confused.

Hadn't someone said he had been here for weeks?

From his point of view, this was his second full day at the asylum. Before the first day, he had been in the padded cell and his memories of that were quite messed up. In order to sort it out, he labelled that day 'Day Zero', unsure how much time had passed and how long he had been in there. He had been brought to his room in the evening of Day Zero.

It was only two full days, but it surely felt as if he had been in here for weeks.

He had not only difficulties calculating but also sorting out what had happened on which day.

It must have been only two days, he only had breakfast in the hall twice, yet. He was very sure of that.

But that was the odd thing. If the date Paterson had in his head was right, he was only missing three days.

He felt suddenly lightheaded.

Something was happening.

Something wasn't adding up.

A clue.

The thing was he couldn't figure out what it meant.

He stumbled towards one of the benches and sat down heavily, shaking slightly and weak in the knees.

"Whoa... Do you need help? Should I get a doctor?"

"No no! I'm fine. Just a dizzy spell. It will pass. I'm fine." Sherlock didn't look up but was aware Paterson was staring.

His thoughts were tumbling.

Someone had told him he had been here for weeks, who was it?

Maybe Paterson was wrong.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure... My wife comes to visit me and she always makes sure to tell me the date. I would go mad without it. But that's it about this place, if one wasn't insane going in, chances are high one is after a short time." With that, Paterson let himself fall into the seat next to Sherlock. The impact made Sherlock's teeth clash gently, his headache was getting worse.

"They said I was in the admissions ward before I came to our ward..."

"Aye, everyone stays there for a few weeks in the beginning, until they do a detailed interview and finish their observations, you know, so they know in which permanent ward they want to put you. Wouldn't make much sense putting an epileptic with the mania patients, would it?"

Sherlock flinched when the other man uttered the word 'mania'.

"I can't remember the admissions ward. I woke up in 'our' ward."

"Maybe you hit your head or something? Usually, the first thing when you arrive is the receiving room. You are disrobed, bathed, checked for lice and scarlet fever there... and you have your height and weight checked and all. Maybe you were injured and therefore they didn't do that... There are several people here with memory loss, all had accidents or something, some came straight from hospital."

"I can't remember..." Sherlock trailed off.

This didn't make sense.

"You will soon, I am sure," Paterson said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. "What work are you supposed to join?" he then changed topics.

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered, deep in trying to puzzle the facts together.

"Yeah, well they will tell you soon. No lazy thumb twiddling here. It would compromise your recovery! Inactivity is a disagreeable habit," he said in a mock authoritative tone. "They will hopefully give you some more time to allow you to rest and socialise... You really look like you're about to keel over, Will. Sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I don't think none of the doctors will have any understanding of my issues," Sherlock huffed in a frustrated tone.

"Oh, you're one of those?"

"Those?" Sherlock echoed.

"Not trusting them, those capable doctors. Think psychologists are all quacks?"

"No. Not really. I just don't trust people who think they are impeccable or that they know best although their field of work is still in its infancy."

"Yeah well, they are gods in white. Decide about your life, no matter what you know about it, they think they know better after knowing you for half an hour. Take the superintendant for example."

"Who's that?"

"Oh, he is the one who rules this facility. What he orders happens. The staff is obedient and excessively loyal. The word of the superintendant is law!" Paterson explained. "He's like a general, directs everything that is going on. He's the head of medicine and staff management, controls every aspect of life in this wonderful institution. Decides who is getting which diet or treatment, controls the letters going in and out, he even does the post mortems."

"Have you met him?"

"Of course, he is the link between us patients and the outside world, does daily rounds. He even lives here on the estate. Also, you can ask for an appointment if you have something really serious to complain about or something. It's every inmate's... eh... patient's right to do so."

Sherlock's hopes rose.

Could this be a way to request a release?

"Thing is, I know some people who tried that, did them no good."

Sherlock internally faltered again.

In other words: it was just like in modern times. Of course, you had the right to propound your case – just because it was your right. But that didn't mean anyone would bother to care.

"The only way to endure this," Paterson made a gesture that showed he meant the asylum, "is to show perfect manners and don't make any problems. Only this will get you any sympathies or friendly reactions here.

Sherlock grimaced when he remembered that the doctor had advised him to behave from now on.

"If you don't comply nasty 'treatments' will be the result," Paterson added.

"What do you mean?"

"The treatments you will be given will make you think twice before showing that particular symptom of your illness again. Reginald over there for example," he pointed at a tall slim man in the distance, "He was angry that they told his wife not to come visit, he yelled at staff repeatedly. Therefore, they treated his agitation with a medication that made him vomit and have the shits for a week, until all fight went out of him. I mean, they can give you nasty meds that result in an immediate improvement of your attitude – due to suffering."

Sherlock sighed. It was a form of power game, of making someone comply. It was certainly more subtle than chaining a patient to a wall, but this the same keynote.

Additionally, there was the problem that asylums were not only a home for people who couldn't live on their own, but also a people dump for all those society or other people wanted to get rid of. The unwanted citizens that were completely healthy, dumped here by relatives, unloving husbands or the community, just because someone wanted to get rid of them, not due to their mental state.

"If they can't convince you to eat they will restrain you and force-feed you through a tube. Someone died a few years ago because the food got into the lungs."

"How long have you been here?" Sherlock asked.

"Three years."

Sherlock felt his eyes widen involuntarily in horror. The man appeared quite normal, had not shown any severe signs of mental illness yet, but Sherlock was aware that might mean nothing.

"Melancholia," Paterson stated. It was obviously his diagnosis. "My daughter and then my wife died and I..." he stuttered. "I am not handling it very well."

Paterson made sure they were back in side in time for dinner. The Scot was allowed a personal item as a reward for good behaviour and had chosen his pocket watch, which he frequently pulled out to check the time. Sherlock wondered if it was just a habit because of a former occupation or a compulsion.

It was his first dinner at the asylum; he had slept through yesterday's evening meal. The potatoes were again unpeeled and sparingly salted. The meat was overcooked and bland, but at least there was meat.

Sherlock did not enjoy the meal and started to feel sick halfway through. He couldn't finish the potatoes. Paterson – who had an unusually good appetite for someone with depressions and asked if he could finish them for him.

After tea, Sherlock was once more picked up by Miller. This time he wondered how close he was observed at all times. He had thought that they had relaxed control on his second day, but when the nurse showed up he wasn't sure any longer.

Miller escorted him to his room and when he showed signs of locking him in, Sherlock asked for a bathroom break.

Maybe they had relaxed the control but when he vanished today to wash his hair had made them change their minds.

"Alright. You should take a comb and brush your hair. You look very dishevelled," Miller advised.

Sherlock fetched the comb and a second towel to hide the fact that he would bring back the other one.

When he stood in front of the bathroom mirror he was horrified, he really looked tattered, his hair wild around his head. His paleness made the black circles under his eyes very prominent.

He found he couldn't look at his reflection, turned away in aversion.

Therefore, he combed through his tauted curls with his back to the mirror. He hadn't cut his hair since before Mary's death and it had grown quite a bit, which was now making things worse.

Wetting it again helped a bit. The good thing was the facilities were empty and he had at least a bit of privacy that way.

It took so long that Miller came in to see what the problem was. He then went to get a hairbrush because the comb was just useless.

An hour and a lot of tweaking later, Sherlock's hair was free of knots, wet and combed back. He looked exactly as if he had greased them back again, but it feel better.

Cleaner.

Miller brought him back to his room and locked him in.

He started to dread the sound of the key turning the lock, but for now, he was glad about having a bit of privacy.

Sherlock had planned to explore the place as best as he could within the day and continue during the night. The first he had achieved. Nevertheless, over three hours in the 'garden' had left him drained. Although they had sat on benches more than half the time it was way more exercise than his body was ready to perform.

Paterson had provided so much useful intel he had just listened, eager to learn more and ignoring his body's complaints about the cold and the strain.

The wound in his leg had gone from occasional itching to throbbing at some point. Now it was radiating more pain than his still present headache.

Additionally, he found he was so exhausted from the blow of the devastating conversation with the doctor, he lacked all motivation to do anything.

The hypothesis that he might be incarcerated in the asylum mainly by his mind, not by the physical circumstances surrounding him undermined his motivation further.

Until he found a solution for that, he wasn't sure it was of any use to do physical exploration.

So he cancelled last night's plan, to do more reconnaissance during this night.

It was all the same.

When he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to fight his fatigue and wonder what the hell for he was trying that, he felt that itch on his scalp again.

Combing through his wet hair with his fingers, he had the sudden impulse to shake his curls loose.

And he did.

Little droplets of water hit the stone floor in front of the bed and even the window when he violently shook the water out.

The intense movement made him feel dizzy.

But it felt good.

As if unleashing his curls had reminded him who he was.

That he was Sherlock Holmes and he had curls.

Reconnecting to his real self.

It was liberating.

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