Asylum Day 4: Friday, March 22nd 1867
Sherlock woke the next morning a lot more relaxed than any other morning before.
He had slipped into sleep while seeking out and sorting through every tiny bit of information that might somehow connect his personal history to Victorian asylums.
The exercise had brought more confusion instead of the clarity he had hoped to find. There was nothing that made sense.
By now he knew a bit more about the asylum's morning routine - and how to evade the worst smelling toilets. The constantly recurring procedures somehow made it easier once he had memorized them properly.
Breakfast was not as bad as the days before, and Paterson invited him to a game of chess after the meal.
When Sherlock wondered why the man didn't have to work, the Scot explained that he was recovering from a bad flu and had spent over two weeks in the ward for contagious diseases before they met. But he expected to be sent back to work on Monday.
His opinion was that Sherlock's recuperation time would be up by then, too.
Chances were high he was right. Sherlock had heard so often that routine and occupation were the most important things in asylum life and how evil idleness was, that he was surprised every time they did not keep him busy. The asylum was overpopulated and maybe the staff was just overworked and unable to manage all the patients.
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After the meal he and Paterson walked back to the nurse's desk on his level and asked if he was free to go to the day room. Miller explained that as long as he'd spent the time there with 'mental exercise' he was free to go, whatever that meant.
Then Miller added that after lunch, Sherlock was expected to report back for treatment. Sherlock boldly asked which kind of treatment and Miller answered 'light physical exercise'.
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Playing chess turned out to be more challenging than expected.
It was hard work for Sherlock to focus on the game. Each move took him a very long time and he lost track so often it even unnerved the patient Scotsman.
Paterson was superior, although Sherlock deemed him a mediocre player. The reason was clearly Sherlock's inability to concentrate. He felt like an imbecile. The cravings were simmering through from real life and added to his problem by constantly dragging his thoughts away from the game towards needing to organise a fix.
His carefully hidden agitation resulted in him unconsciously moving the fingers of his left hand against his thumb, as if mentally playing the violin.
"Are you a musician?" A person he had seen a few times before was standing next to the table. The outer appearance made it immediately clear the man - or boy, he couldn't be older than 17 - had Down syndrome.
"Why?" he asked bluntly, revising the boys age. People with Down syndrome often looked a bit younger than they were, he remembered from one of his earlier cases.
"You play the guitar?" The boy stared at Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's gaze followed his focus and he found his hand was still going through a piece he had learned early in his violin practise.
It was one of his personal ways to stim and he did it now and then without realising it. Luckily, it wasn't obvious and most people weren't aware it was self-comforting behaviour.
"No, I play the violin," he answered after a brief period of concentration, a bit horrified he had put his need on display like this. Or maybe the boy just knew what dry training and finger exercises looked like.
"Can you show me?"
Sherlock was a bit overwhelmed by the request. He was missing his instrument desperately.
"I don't have it here. It is at my home. I miss it." He kept his explanation simple, not yet sure about the perceptive faculty of his colloquist.
"There are violins and guitars in the music room - and a huge piano. Old Rupert showed me how to play a bit, but he died," the boy explained in a sad tone.
It made Sherlock listen more carefully.
"Music room? "
"Yes, it is down the hall," the boy answered. By now Sherlock had deduced that the young man had potential. His clothes were in order, his speech was almost normal and his fingers were cleaner than most in the asylum.
The information itself, though, made Sherlock excited.
It was like discovering a little treasure.
"I want you to show me," he addressed the boy and hastened to stand up.
The boy flinched and an attendant walked over.
"Everything alright?" the man asked.
"Yes, yes," Paterson said. "We're just talking to George here. They want to go to the music room, Sir," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, pointing at Sherlock.
"Can we go?" George was reaching for Sherlock's hand.
The touch was more than Sherlock could handle, and he flinched. But then excitement took over again and his focus shifted to the more pressing issue: finding a violin.
"Now, now, George, give him a moment," Paterson said in a patronising tone. "The violin is not going anywhere."
"Alright. Let's go," Sherlock agreed, in a choked tone. He felt the agitation tingle in his toes and on the tip of his tongue.
"Fine, go then. I will register you went there. Tell the attendant there to log you in," the carer said in a bored tone and returned to his desk.
Only then, Sherlock realised how carefully they were logging his every move.
George led the way and he followed, Paterson behind them.
They walked down the long corridor and turned into another part of the building that had a corridor looking exactly the same. It was the same direction Sherlock had already explored.
Then George turned towards a door to the left and opened it carefully. Apparently, he had been instructed to be quiet and respectful when he entered.
A few faint tones from inexpertly-struck piano keys greeted him.
When Sherlock entered, a man looked up from the grand piano in the middle of the large room. It was clearly not only meant to be for practise but also for small performances.
There were music stands, a large mirror, a round bench in the corner, several chairs and desks. He even spotted an accordion and a zither. Someone had not only collected instruments; they were good ones.
"I need a violin," Sherlock briskly addressed the bored carer at the piano, who obviously never had had a music lesson in his life.
"Over there, in the cabinet." The man pointed at a richly decorated cupboard.
Sherlock hurried over and opened it.
What greeted him was not just one violin; it was a choice of 11 violin cases, all looking old and well used. He picked up the first from the top row on the left and opened it. The instrument was in a desolate state; only one of the strings was not broken and the bow's hairs were mostly frayed.
Of course, stupid, anyone ready to look into every case would pick the top left one first. He picked the last on the right of the bottom shelf and opened the case.
It looked overall intact and well used, though it was a cheap model. The industrial revolution had started to influence even violin makers.
He continued backwards up the shelf. The second violin he inspected was heavily damaged, no strings at all and the bow was missing. The third one was in equally poor condition though the bow was high quality. It was another Bohemian instrument made by a cottage industry, by anonymous skilled labourers producing simple, inexpensive products.
Sherlock opened three more cases before he carried the first case over to the nearest table. He needed to look no further. This was the one he would play. It was made in Italy, well used and at least one hundred years old.
With shaking fingers, he took it out and adjusted the tension of the bow. Then he checked it over for fissures or damaged strings. He had to reattach the D string and his trembling hands were not helping.
George, Paterson and the carer were sitting silently nearby watching him.
It took him a bit to prepare the instrument. When he was finally done, he gently tugged the strings to tune it.
It felt so familiar and sounded so very safe.
Like this, he might imagine being home at 221 b, sitting in his chair, playing his own violin.
Plucking its strings felt good. The sounds were warm and welcoming.
He placed it on his shoulder and gave the A string a long, gentle stroke.
The sound seemed to echo through his entire body.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
After playing the first chords of one of his favourite pieces, he found the lack of a shoulder rest difficult to handle; he hadn't played without one very often.
Many great violinists never used shoulder rests because it could dampen the instrument's tone by decreasing the vibrations. But Sherlock's long neck and the distance between his chin and shoulder made it difficult to hold the instrument without the extension.
Of course he could do it, but he'd regret it.
The cramped position would cause a painful constrained back, shoulders and neck within half an hour.
Well aware shoulder rests hadn't been invented yet, he turned back to the cabinet for an era-fitting solution.
He found a tattered wooden crate, filled with violin paraphernalia.
There were old pieces of resin, unpacked strings, a bundle of hair for a bow, a damaged tailpiece, several discarded bridges as well as some new ones. Amongst all the rubble he found two well used sponges and a bundle of what looked like shammies.
He used one of the sponges to lift the violin up on his collar bone and keep it from slipping on his shirt by covering the sponge with a piece of leather. It worked better than expected.
Once more he closed his eyes and started to play.
It was rough.
His clumsy fingers hit the strings in spots that were slightly off.
The overall jitteriness that had followed him around since his arrival was making things worse.
On the other hand, he felt slightly shaky from how intimately pure it felt to hold the instrument and feel its sounds.
The sensation of the strings under his fingertips and the resistance the bow met when he dragged it over the strings was satisfying, even when the tones that came out weren't. Playing in a sitting position was not optimal, but he felt unable to stand upright.
Slowly, he played an easy piece, then another.
It felt good. So very good.
The vibrations spread warm Prussian green warmth in his bones and he allowed himself to sink deeper into the familiar mind space.
Irene's song was followed by a melancholic piece from his youth. The melodies brought him back to safer times, blocked out the present.
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At some point, he heard someone whisper and while playing he stood up blindly and moved a few steps away from the voices, towards the windows. He would have preferred to throw everyone out, but assumed it would mean trouble. And the last thing he needed was to be denied access to this newly discovered treasure.
Turning his back on them, he imagined he was standing in his living room, facing the windows and standing in the sunshine coming in. It was his favourite playing spot.
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He actually managed to forget the asylum for quite some time. He played another long piece that had been difficult to learn but rewarding once he managed it at age thirteen. His fingers practically played it on their own. It had always served him as an outlet for frustration since it contained a few crescendos and some annoying inharmonious (at least to his ears) arpeggios.
Loud applause harshly dragged him out of his illusion and forced him to resurface.
When he opened his eyes the bright light made him wince.
The area around the entrance was crowded with at least 30 people. Carers and patients alike, and they were rejoicing.
The loud clapping and the unknown persons felt intrusive. It was a blunt violation of his privacy. His jaw clenched and his breath became forced.
Hastily, but with care, he placed the instrument back in its case and closed the doors of the cupboard, meanwhile he scanned the room for exits.
There was a door to the garden and he fled towards it.
It didn't open.
The only exit was the door to the hall. Biting his lips, he stormed towards it and a perplexed mass of people parted before him.
Outside, there were even more standing in the hall.
A private, intimate moment had turned public.
This was the opposite of what he needed.
He ran.
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A few minutes later, he reached his room, banged the door shut and curled up on the bed.
The chaos in his head was threatening to drown him. The exaggerated agitation he felt was unnatural and probably caused by the meth withdrawal. Nevertheless, the fact that little things threw him off course was hard to endure.
It felt like being a child again. He had hated not understanding things and being not in control without knowing why.
He was being swept off his feet by the agonizing emotions that were suddenly rising to the surface. As if playing had ripped open a wound he had forgotten. He felt a bit naïve when he realised that for some reason he had hoped these sentiments would be easier to handle inside his mind palace. Maybe they were, but it was still hellish.
He was not ready to face the emotional havoc and forced a Buddhist routine to clear his mind.
Soon after that he drifted off.
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He woke half an hour later but kept his eyes closed, tried to analyse which emotion was currently bothering him most.
Missing his violin was a big factor. She was his outlet for unbearable feelings that he couldn't even name; his way to release pressure before it overwhelmed him.
Being unable to channel his emotions via music was causing him trouble. Things would be much easier if he could play through the night - or through the cravings.
Another aspect was that missing John for weeks in real life, and now additionally in this environment, was nauseating.
He had retreated to the mind palace to experience an easy to handle version of John. No-John at all was a mental sore spot.
The third was definitely that his decision to retreat into his mind had gone wrong in almost all the aspects that mattered. He was failing at everything and the asylum was the embodiment of that.
His own paranoia, anxiety and thoughts going in circles were extremely annoying. It was getting on his nerves that he couldn't force his mind to simply switch everything off that was magnified by withdrawal.
His inability to concentrate made him miss all kinds of details, even the fact that the staff seemed to track him. He was a detective for god's sake, he should notice such things.
What if he remained this stupid after withdrawal was over?
What if he remained incarcerated in the mind palace forever? His body in a coma-like state, a nursing case, vegetating in some first class care home chosen by Mycroft for the rest of his life.
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A loud knock startled him.
"Get up," Hughes barked. "You are late for lunch!"
Still dazed, Sherlock sat up and tried to adjust to the harsh change of atmosphere in the room.
"Will you hurry up? "
It was quite cold and Sherlock shivered. He grabbed his oversized cardigan before he stumbled into the hall. Hughes followed with a grumpy expression.
"If you again misuse our goodwill, the freedom to decide how you want to spend your mental exercise time will be revoked. You were told repeatedly that sleeping in your room at any time during t he day is against the rules!" he barked behind him while he shooed him down the stairs.
His afternoon turned into a demonstration of what it would feel like to be escorted to everything again.
They made him take a long walk in the airing court, accompanied by the slim fierce carer whose name he didn't know. The man didn't talk, just walked a step behind him the entire time. Sherlock was glad no one was trying to make conversation but it felt like another intrusion. He tried to turn it into a walking meditation with mediocre results. The resurfacing cravings made it a dire pastime.
When they returned to the building, he was cold and his leg was hurting again.
"Wait in the common room for dinner. Bathing time after the meal," the attendant informed him in a gruff voice and pointed at the entrance to the room.
Sherlock fell into one of the armchairs and picked up a newspaper someone had left at the side table.
"The pharmacy act is coming" one of the headlines on the front page read. The subtitle said 'pharmaceutical societies on their way to assert control over drug distribution'.
Sherlock checked the date. The newspaper was only a few days old. Without much interest he started reading nevertheless. The topic did touch the history of his studied profession.
The article focussed on how much the average chemist feared their business would suffer from the soon to come changes. Chemists would need to register and be examined. Their abilities and knowledge about the chemicals and remedies they handled tested.
Apparently some quacksalvers feared they would not pass a scientific test, which in Sherlock's understanding would be no loss.
The past two decades had shown how much damage uncontrolled experimenting with client's health had done.
The act would also control the distribution of fifteen poisons and opium, which had been freely available until now.
The further he read, the more clear it became that the reason for the chemists' resistance was due to the fact that the various forms of opium - such as laudanum - constituted a major part of their trade. It would throw them out of business to be denied selling it. The desired effect of this regulation saving a lot of lives was apparently not of much concern. The increasing number of opium related deaths in children and adults had led to this development. The lower classes, who couldn't afford a doctor, consulted a pharmacist. In this era, many remedies glossed over the symptoms rather than aid in healing. The misconception that feeling an effect was in the population's mind closely connected to how effective and high quality a medication was, had led to laxatives being sold as cure-alls for all sorts of serious incurable ailments. At least the pharmaceutical societies were heading in the right direction, although Sherlock was convinced the new upper class of industrialism would find a way to profit from it.
He found himself planning to stock up on opium should he get out of the asylum before January 1st, 1868. Realising he was planning to take more drugs even though the whole exercise was about getting clean dampened his mood even more.
His resolve to get off the drugs and stay abstinent was a major factor in what was happening.
If he lost his determination he could shoot himself and save everyone the trouble. Because Molly was right. If he fell back into using the way he had during the past month it would kill him - soon.
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Many thanks to Pipmer, who beta-ed this chapter. I am so happy to have someone who checks my spelling and grammar mistakes. :)