Disruption Part 9
Sherlock bode ill and when he and Hughes headed towards their unknown destination.
He took the chance to ask the man to relay his request to meet the superintendent. Paterson had explained earlier that it was every patient's right to articulate concerns, first to the superintendent and when problems were not solvable to the meetings of committee. His concern was clear, didn't belong in the asylum and he was not what they thought he was. He had to try to address it, although after all he had heard chances that anyone in charge would believe his words very very slim.
Hughes agreed to relay the request with a grumpy expression.
Sherlock then asked what treatment was planned for him, but the answer was too cryptic for his liking.
"The treatment is for relaxation. We have noticed your affliction."
When they arrived, several members of the staff were present in the large hall. He was led past a row of bathtubs, in each was a person. The tubs were fully covered with some kind of rugged fabric that was fastened to the rim. The only thing visible of the person was the head, which was sticking through a small opening in the fabric. It was immediately clear that once inside the contraption the dweller was not able to free himself.
Hughes ordered him to undress and Sherlock was a bit shocked about it.
In disbelief he shook his head, unsure what he was supposed to do and what this should be good for. He was at a loss how to do this. Nakedness was not really something Victorians were open about, although he had seen people being washed in the dorm rooms and showers in groups, no privacy screens or anything, which struck him as odd at first but by now he understood privacy was not something this institution cared much about. The rest of Victorian Britain was overly careful. The practice of men swimming in the nude was banned in 1860.*1 Overall the trend was going towards covering every part of the body as much as possible.
He had opted against wearing the underwear provided, it was causing him too much discomfort. He wore nothing under his old pyjamas. Shyness was not his problem, it was more the fear of blundering, which had sky risen since he arrived here. It felt foreign to be this insecure and he affiliated it with being vulnerable to the tortures his own mind could come up with to punish him.
"The swimsuit is over there. Take it on. Get in the bath," another nurse barked and pointed at an alcove nearby. When he walked towards it, he saw a one-piece swimsuit that covered arms to the elbows and legs to the knees.
When Hughes barked, "Now!" he hurried to change and step over to the last free claw foot tub.
Sherlock hesitated when he was about to put his foot into the water, fearing it might be cold. But the closer his toes came to the surface the clearer it became it was radiating warmth.
The only fear that remained was that he might freak out as a result of being tied in.
Apparently this reaction was common, because two bulky men were there, ready to forcefully help to get the cover over him.
"Today, please. And don't get the bandage wet," one of the bulky men barked.
He hesitated, how was he supposed to keep the bandage dry while in a filled bath?
On one leg, he slowly stepped in and sat down bracing himself on the rims. It was quite a balancing act. The water temperature was toasty and a welcome contrast to him feeling cold all the time.
A moment later someone shoved something under his leg to keep it above the water level, then the cover was roughly pulled over his head. He barely had time to sit up safely and get into a position that would allow him to breathe when the fabric was tightened around his neck.
Panic mingled in.
His field of vision that was already severely limited by nurse's aprons, the fabric of the cover and several other things. He was low down and everybody was leaning over him, working on tying the cover tightly to the rim, which was not helping things.
When his lean long form started to slide down the tub because his senses were vanishing, he felt hands holding him up.
Booming voices were all around him but he couldn't make out any of what they were saying.
He clenched his teeth, sucked in air - and bludgeoned the panic. It took such an effort that he momentarily tuned out his surroundings.
When things began to register again he was confined in a bathtub. He could turn his head and sit up straighter or sink lower, but that was about it. The only choice he had was how to position his arms and legs under the cover.
The more of his senses came back, the more personnel backed off.
"Has he been checked for consumption? He seems to have trouble breathing."
Sherlock would have rolled his eyes, if he wasn't still struggling to adjust to the situation.
Things calmed down after he was finally in. Most of the nurses left the room.
Sherlock sat in a cramped position and was trembling under the cover. It took quite some time until he realised he was supposed to relax.
After ten minutes, he was still trying to adjust, a nurse aid came in with a tablet and ordered everyone to lean back their heads. Shortly thereafter a cold wet towel was placed on his forehead.*²
The panic had subsided to moderate, but now mingled with waves of dizziness. The contrast of cold on his head and warmth everywhere else felt strange and not good at all.
Without an idea how long he was supposed to stay in there time stretched uncomfortably.
Sometimes one or both of the remaining carers left for a short time and during the second absence. Sherlock addressed the inmate in the adjacent tub.
"How long do we have to stay in here?" he whispered.
After a careful glace towards the door, his neighbour whispered back, "most of the times the let us out shortly before lunchtime."
That would be more than four hours.
When footsteps could be heard in the silence Sherlock understood talking was not allowed. Everyone else was silent and giving them tense looks.
He wondered if he could free himself should the need arise. But the construction of the cover and the way it was fastened made it very unlikely.
The minutes passed very slowly and he felt as if the cold cloth on his head was numbing his mind bit by bit. A bad combination with being all tensed up.
He did tried to relax, nevertheless, the absence of stimuli meant that a well-known empty feeling bubbled up to the forefront of his mind. It was followed almost immediately by the worst bout of cravings he had experienced in a while.
In a desperate try to not get lost in the sensation, he started to analyse the staff's routine he had witnessed so far. It was difficult to keep his thoughts on course, because he caught himself deducing where the medications were stored and figuring out how to get a key. He longed for a nice shot of morphine to numb the experience. Or a bit of cocaine that would enable him to think clearly and figure out how to escape.
Withdrawal was always hard, but this time there were factors that made it feel so futile.
The emotional turmoil - both, his own and John's - and the grief were all bad on their own, but all combined was something that seemed unmanageable.
Where had his ability to solve problems gone?
He felt as if it had evaporated in the agony of loss.
And now on top of it all he was trapped in his own mind which seemed ready to throw more cruelty at him the more he fought.
What was his mind doing?
The mind palace was not the refuge he had hoped to find. His desire had been to recuperate and gather strength in a safe place, full of interesting cases, accompanied by an early version of John.
The last thing he needed was incarceration. He had been locked in before and left him in a poor state - mentally and physically.
Not daring to hope that it might work this time, Sherlock tried to get out of this scenario once more, focussed on leaving his mind palace.
It didn't work.
Then he realised that maybe he shouldn't try to get out but in deeper. He concentrated on entering his mind palace.
Maybe it was the other way round. Maybe he needed to get into the palace to return to reality.
Why hadn't he thought of that before?
When he managed to imagine the door he used as an entryway and stepped through it he was discouraged.
The mind palace was there - or a second level of it - and looked normal at first sight. The entrance hall was exactly as it should be. He took his time to check and found that although it looked the same, something felt off.
His suspicion was confirmed when he climbed two stairs and opened the door that he knew led to some of the memories from the pink case.
To his horror, he door opened to a vast bottomless dark space. He opted against, trying to step in. He tried other doors and it was the same with most of them, though in some unjoined facts where swirling around in the dark, drifting in weightlessness.
Some rooms were filled with the memories they should contain, they seemed oddly out of reach nevertheless.
When another sudden rush of panic started to overwhelm him, he suddenly felt a cold hand on his forehead and his mind palace darkened.
"Shh… Don't open your eyes," Mary's whisper came from a distance, then he felt her hand on his brow.
Sherlock gulped and concentrated on keeping himself together. Their last encounter had been more like a scene from a horror movie than anything else.
Under all circumstances, he needed to prevent to freak out like the last time he had been confronted with her ghost - or his hallucination.
He concentrated on breathing evenly.
"You're still falling, Sherlock."
What?
"I'm so sorry, Mary. I didn't… I… I failed…"
"Shh," she made again, in a gentle tone. He felt her stroke his head. It was a foreign sensation. John had done it on a few rare occasions but other than that he hadn't been touched like this since he was a child.
"No, Sherlock. You didn't… or at least not the way you think."
"What did I do wrong?"
"You risked being actually killed, which was the opposite of what I needed you to do. You overdid it. But I understand now that you were more perilled than I anticipated. You do have a history of risking more than you should."
"I…" Sherlock started.
"It's alright. Sherlock, do you understand that I made this sacrifice out of love?"
"Of course you loved him, I never doubted that."
"Not what I meant. I decided in that split second that you are valuable enough to die for," she continued. "Did you get that?"
Sherlock froze and it felt as if he had suddenly lost the ground beneath his feet and was indeed falling. Panic surged up, started to suffocate him.
"Shhhh. You're okay. I got you," she soothed. "I know you sometimes need emotional things explained. Just let me explain."
"You tried to prevent it and I didn't listen," Sherlock whispered. "My words to Norbury killed you. You tried to stop me from talking and I ignored you. My ignorance is the reason you are dead," Sherlock chocked out.
"Calm down, Sherlock," she demands, gently pressing her cold hand to his forehead. "Shhh.."
It felt so good to be called by his real name.
"No Sherlock. The reason I am dead is that she shot me," Mary soothed.
"I need you to know that you are loved," she continued. "And I need you to know that I didn't expect you to go this far when I asked you to make John save you. I underestimated how far you would go. I should have told you I expected you to survive it."
Sherlock's throat was feeling clogged and wet and his head was throbbing.
"That's why I need to tell you now: You have an obligation to stay alive. I died for you and you need to stay alive because you owe it to me."
It took some time until the realisation sank in on Sherlock's side.
"I did it wrong," Sherlock stammered, his voice hoarse.
"No… well, yes, but that's not the point. I am aware what you did for him. It means a lot to me. I am very grateful for that. I should have phrased my request more careful. I should have been aware you have a tendency to take things literally… I am sorry I made you risk your life like that. I didn't mean to."
"I needed to save him."
"I know, Sherlock, I know. You did well. I just wish it didn't cost you this much," she continued.
Sherlock felt her stroke his head, simultanously he felt as if in a chokehold.
"Relax, just let it go… I got you."
Sherlock didn't know what she meant, understood that he was supposed to do something, but the onslaught of sensations that hit him were overwhelming.
"If you don't survive this, it was all for nothing. He won't survive losing both of us. He needs to hold onto somebody… and that is you. Whatever you do, whatever happens, he needs to keep you. See to it. Stay with him! Stay alive!"
Sherlock was unable to respond and she recognised it. He felt her gently bent his head back and kiss his forehead.
It felt as if someone had pushed air into his lungs - with considerable force. Something was pumped into him and he couldn't stop it.
"It's alright. Just let it go. It needs to get out. Don't hold back. Let go."
Before he could ask her how he was supposed to do that an what exactly 'it' was, he felt as if Mary was hugging and supporting him simultaneously.
A splashing sound made him recoil and he was jerked back to Victorian reality.
One of the orderlies was leaning closer to him and hissed, "Calm down, or you will regret it," into his ear.
Sherlock needed a few moments to muzzle all the dreadful and vulnerable feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes felt swollen and his nose clogged.
On the outside, he was just one more of the patients trying to cope and see the sense in this treatment. On the inside, his overall hardship was a swirling ocean that would drown him sooner or later.
A foreign touch startled him.
One of the orderlies was freeing him. He noticed that he was the only patient left in the room.
He was languid and disoriented from what had just been disclosed inside his head.
It was a struggle to hold himself up and the orderlies helped him out of the tub. He felt shaky and had no energy left to fight their touches or think clearly.
They noticed his lethargy and wrapped him in a warm blanket, then helped him into a wooden wheelchair.
Sherlock was barely aware of what was happening. What was happening around him overcharged him, he just allowed it to happen, surrendered to their care while he was internally crying out and struggling to breathe.
The newly gained knowledge put more emphasis on how important it was to get out.
How much time had passed in the real world?
Hours?
Days?
Years?
They moved him to a room nearby and lifted him onto a cot.
What happened then was more surprising than vile.
The foreign hands started to move him around - a lot - and wrap him in warm towels, it took quite some time and the touches became more and more difficult to handle. But then the wrappings became tighter, the more layers were added.
When he tried to open his eyes and determine his state, his hazy eyesight made him realise he was giving the perfect impression of a mummy. Although the strange binding practically restrained him and left him completely helpless he couldn't care less.
It felt good!
It actually felt so good that Sherlock blocked everyone out and just relished the first wave of wellbeing in a very long time.
It was almost like a drug. When this realisation hit, it was immediately followed by anxiety and then the all-clear. He was experiencing the release of serotonin and dopamine, caused by deep pressure stimulation. It was only his own body's feel good chemical at work.
Appreciating what was happening, he leaned into the sensation, tried to open his mind to experience it.
It was so warm and comfortable and safe and encapsulating and calm and good.
He lost himself in his body's exhilaration and he didn't care.
.
He slept through the entire afternoon and woke only when someone started to remove his cocoon.
Apparently they had tried to wake him earlier but left him be when they couldn't. They had kept him warm somehow the entire time and Sherlock felt relaxed for the first time in ages.
.
Walker - the senior carer - escorted him back to his room. On the way, he informed Sherlock that meeting the superintendent was not possible any time soon due to the man's tight schedule. Sherlock was still somewhat dazed so that what the meaning of it didn't really reach his mind.
When they arrived at his room, Sherlock found a tablet with dinner was waiting. Walker told him he had twenty minutes to eat.
It was dark outside and the room was only lit by the light from the corridor that came in through the wide open door.
The tea was cold but sweet. He didn't feel like eating, so he stored the food away in his closet, well aware that it was forbidden.
.
Even after half a day of sleep he felt tired, though the bone deep exhaustion had receded a bit. He felt rested and less tense. Soaking in water all day had cleansed away something, though he was unable to name or pinpoint it. Some of aspect of the vexation had dissolved in the water. It's absence left him feeling extricated and unsoiled.
Step by step he slowly walked through the room, halfway through he wondered why he did it.
In need of more privacy, he closed the door.
Something about the day's events was important, that much he knew. He needed to analyse the problem, go through the details, think about it properly.
Maybe there was a connection to finding a way to escape from this building, he just had to spot the clues that showed him the way out.
While waiting for someone to lock him in, he arranged himself in a sloppy lotus position on the bed. He focussed on the fragments of memories from before he woke up in the padded cell, using the moderate pain in his leg as an anchor.
Focussing on the wound, he tried to remember how it had happened, hoping it would kick-start his memories.
Was the wound a physical manifestation of some sort?
Of missing John?
John's absence left a sore feeling but when Sherlock tried to explore it, he found it was dull and constant.
The wound was the opposite - Sharp and varying.
Did it represent the harm he had done to his own body these past weeks?
The only thing that happened was that the pain became annoying.
It was futile.
It felt as if there was a block in place that blocked him from something. Not the one he had consciously put in place to shield himself from the cravings, but something else. He didn't know how to dislodge it. A black mass of unawareness that felt impenetrable.
He was still doing his mental exploration when someone opened the door, and said, "Good night Mr. Greenberg."
He blinked, but the door was shut before he could see who had been there. The door was locked immediately.
Maybe they had been right to put him in here. Maybe he really belonged here?
Believing that there was an alternate reality was a bit lunatic.
For the first time, he felt the idea claim him that he was actually going crazy.
Had he lost his mind and dreamt it all up?
No! It couldn't be like that.
It was time to try another approach.
Recently, even planning to try to leave the mind palace the usual way was seriously getting on his nerves. He was tired of trying.
The moment he thought about picturing the palace's tall ornamented doors, he experienced an ugly frowzy sensation that bordered nausea. It promised another abject failure.
He needed a different approach.
What did he personally associate with Victorian mental institutions?
Maybe it was figuratively?
There was quite a lot of information on the topic, enough to create an entire asylum. Though he couldn't remember the occasion that lead to gathering in depth knowledge about it.
There was something he was missing.
Something staring him in the face.
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*1 - Source: Wikipedia - History of Swimwear
*² - Hydrotherapy was an often used treatment in this era. It could contain prolonged warm baths, while cold flannels or compresses were laid against patient's heads. "The resulting contrast between the heated body and the artificially cooled mind greatly calms the agitated man or woman". Some patients were wrapped in warm, wet towels ('wet pack') to reduce manic activity. This treatment was strictly limited in duration; because there was the risk of inducing hypothermia. Source: Stevens, Life in the Victorian Asylum
A google picture search 'Hydrotherapy' will show you what the tubs and mummy wrapping looked like.
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