The last updates of this story have been slow and it might be advisable to re-read chapter 36 to get back into Sherlock's mindset.

Quick summary if you don't: Sherlock was in the padded cell and then he was dragged into a carriage, expecting his aggressors to prepare to get rid of him.

Hands touching him and the movement of a carriage brought him back to a state of half awareness. Before there was conscious thought the adrenaline rush prompted him to move, shove his assailant away. But his body was slow to react and failed to respond properly.

The memories of what had happened trickled back into his awareness.

Right, muscle relaxants... and a strait jacket.

When he heard John's voice, his mind was lured into listening to the reassuring presence.

The mere act of forcing his eyes open was harrowing; and the triumph was short-lived.

Admittedly, he recognised the blurry shape of John's face, but immediately remembered that if he gave in and believed that this apparition was Watson coming to save him, it would make things much more difficult. This wasn't the first time that he hallucinated John in a dire situation. He couldn't fall into the same trap again. The sooner he convinced himself he was on his own the less he would suffer.

No one would come to save him. The intensity of being brought back to this set of mind drove liquid into his eyes. Having miscalculated burned hot and left him in vulnerable desperation.

Hopelessness took over and it was so vicious and his fatigue was so crippling, that all he did was to hope to black out again. His stupid transport on the other hand held on to consciousness despite his need to not experience this again.

"For god's sake Holmes, talk to me," Watson urged.

Can't… trust this… not… real, he stubbornly tried to remind himself.

More touches.

His mind went into overdrive.

It wasn't right. He was missing something.

Right. John had come. He had saved him from certain death - just that he couldn't remember when or how… but one thing was clear in his memory, it had happened only after Sherlock had given up believing he would.

His decision from earlier, to just give in, let them kill him and get it over with evaporated when his body betrayed him. Survival instinct kicked in. This had happened before - repeatedly. The ongoing fight between his mind and his body about this were seriously annoying by now.

His transport was definitely not ready to be snuffed out, no matter how ready he was. And it was winning this fight in the worst possible way just to then surrender because it had no strength left. Which then resulted in him wanting it to be over. A never ending circle.

Don' touch. Stay away.

Sherlock wasn't sure if his obnoxious transport managed to utter the words or somehow react, but it didn't matter. His mind was occupied being annoyed about the betrayal, trying to figure out how to overrun it. Besides, pleading words would do nothing in a situation like this, they only made him pathetic.

"Holmes, its me, just me. You are safe," the hallucination uttered gently.

It was a sharp contrast to the disgusted and furious hallucination of Watson he had been confronted with earlier in the padded cell. Frustration suddenly boiled over and became so towering high it subdued his mind and his body.

His energy seeped out of him and all he could do was witness it. He just wanted to be left alone and escape to oblivion. It was more than pathetic, really.

As he struggled, the opposite happened. John's warm stable hands wrapped around his arm. It felt good to be touched like this - even if it wasn't real. He wanted more of the reassuring touch, wanted the this sensation to stay.

Nevertheless, the internal conflict drove tears to his eyes because the last thing he needed was hope and a spark that would ignite another fight for his wasted life. It would only prolong his suffering.

"Alright, okay. Just relax and regain your senses."

He tried to block out the touch, convince himself it wasn't happening - because it wasn't. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. The physical contact promised safety but he couldn't allow himself to be lured into that bottomless pit again.

The only thing that happened to trust was abandonment. No one he ever trusted had stayed. Everyone left sooner or later, decided someone as defective as him was not worth the effort.

Finally, his body caved in and the crippling fatigue allowed him to drift off as he fiercely clung to that thought.

.

Painful movements dragged him out of the sweet dark nothingness. It was once more replaced by hands on him and the resulting panic.

Still alive, then.

The never ending circle of this brought his mind to its knees. He would have screamed in frustration had he had the energy.

Hands lifted him, dragged him, but he wasn't able to see his surrounding due to the blindingly bright light he was now surrounded by.

Voices.

Water was forced into his mouth and his transport gulped it down, obviously convinced it needed it. For a moment he thought they wanted him alive but then they pried open his mouth again and something was forcibly shoved into his throat.

For what seemed like an endless moment, the violent intrusion floored all his thoughts. They came back racing.

Where they trying to force feed him?

People had died in asylums due to these brutal treatments, had suffocated because whatever they were fed went down the wrong pipe. His weak tries to rip free were stifled by the strait jacket and made his efforts futile.

God, he had hoped it would be quick.

Mindless panic took over again and his body fought against their hold as vicious as it could. But the iron grip was too tight, there was no escape and he could do nothing against the assault.

The torture continued until his throat convulsed and he brought up what little was left in his stomach. His nostrils burned and he fought for air. His eyes watered up till - finally - his mind caved it and he returned to numb darkness.

.

March 29th, 1867 - Friday

The police growler was travelling down a picturesque but bumpy countryside alley with tall trees on both sides. But Watson had no time to admire the landscape or enjoy the bright sunshine that was unusual at this time of year. He was busy monitoring Holmes's erratic vitals. His friend had been unresponsive since they left the asylum.

Finally, Watson had the chance and enough light to examine him in detail.

He was quite alarmed by his friend's state and especially by the constricted pupils. It appeared that he have been given massive amounts of drugs during the past days. Watson had a chance to briefly look into his file and it only now occurred to him that one of the attendants had mentioned they had given him belladonna although the file had not contained that drug. The list of administered drugs it only registered laudanum tincture and 'pills' and no information what those pills had contained or in which quantity they were given. Belladonna would usually result in dilated pupils and could affect his memories and his heartbeat. Additionally, the file had been overall very underreported and sloppy, contained barely any information at all. One reason why he didn't trust it, the other was that Portman might have tried to kill Holmes by ordering a variety of carers to administer smaller doses without knowing what others had already given him and thereby cause overdose. His friend was far from safe yet.

That meant the most important thing right now was to prevent more active ingredients to enter his bloodstream. Which unfortunately left him with only one solution: he had to remove whatever might be in his in stomach before it reached his system. His personal need to not inflict more damage to his friend made his professional self hesitate briefly, but the latter knew it needed to be done rather sooner than later.

When they passed the course of a stream he signalled the driver to stop.

Lestrade looked at him in confusion when the growler came to a halt.

"I need him to purge whatever they have given him. This won't be easy. I need your help," Watson stated and rose.

Lestrade gave him a horrified look but hurried to help him lift their patient out of the cabin.

While the policemen stayed behind with the carriage, the both of them carried Holmes towards the steam bank. They allowed him to sink to his knees on a flat spot near the water and kept him in a half sitting position. The doctor half knelt, half stood behind Holmes and wrapped one arm around his torso from behind, with the other he steadied the slack head. He couldn't help but notice the putrid smell that was coming of Holmes; days of sweat with undertones of urine and leather.

"Alright, if he fights, I need you to help me hold him still," he addressed Lestrade, who was watching the proceedings with mixture of pity and determination on his face.

"First, we need him to drink water so he has something to throw up."

Lestrade fetched a bottle from the carriage and they gently poured liquid down Holmes throat, who remained mostly unresponsive but swallowed mechanically. They waited a few minutes so the water could settle and those minutes were hell on Watson. He direly hoped his friend would not remember this. Maybe the belladonna would help with this. It might also help inducing vomiting because it often caused nausea. Holmes must be feeling like shit, no wonder he was so out of it.

It was no use, they had to do this.

Watson tightened his right arm's grip around his friends torso from behind and brought him forward. As soon as he was sure he could balance them both he shoved Holmes head up with the same arm's hand under his chin.

"Hold his head in place, would you?" he asked Lestrade, who stepped closer and positioned one hand on the back of Holmes' skull, the other on his forehead.

Next, Watson used his left hand to open his jaw and he forced two fingers down Holmes' throat to trigger the gag reflex.

As almost all human beings, Holmes started to fight the intrusion. Watson was actually grateful for the damn strait jacket because it made this a lot easier. He used his right arm to pin his friend's back against his chest to keep him from breaking free.

Holmes' throat started to spasm and Watson pressed his right fist into his stomach to aid the process. It was dreadful but it couldn't be helped.

"Get it out, Holmes," he urged gently when, after a few dry heaves, his friend finally started to bring up his stomach content. Water, bile, and a few half dissolved pills hit the ground beneath them; much to Watson's relief.

"There you go, that's it. Just get it out."

Lestrade turned his head away, apparently fighting his own urge to retch due to the anguished noises Holmes emitted.

Another weak heave produced a bit more liquid but nothing else. Watson relaxed his hold and lowered them back, away from the puddle which Lestrade interpreted as a sign to let go. Holmes' head rolled back against the doctor's shoulder before it turned towards him, their faces close to each other in the rather intimate position. Watson leaned back and went down on his haunches.

"I am so sorry, Holmes, forgive me. This was the only option I had," he gently rocked back and forth to calm his gasping friend. In this god-awful situation it was the only comfort he could offer and hope it would not make things worse. It had helped with wounded soldiers on the battlefield, so he was not beyond trying it despite knowing Holmes' aversion to touch in general. He hoped to infuse a bit of safeness and reassurance.

Holmes's breath smelled foul, of malnutrition, chemicals, and vomit. Through half open eyes, Holmes' eyes found his face, but his gaze was unfocussed and dull. It lasted only a moment before his eyes rolled back and he sagged against him, unconscious again.

Watson sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Alright, let's clean him up and get back to the carriage," he addressed Lestrade and wiped Holmes' face with a handkerchief. While they used the brook's water to clean him up as best as they could Johnson joined them to see if he could do anything.

Ten minutes later, the three of them carried Holmes back and hoisted him into the carriage. This time they allowed him to rest on the floor on a thick blanket but they had to lift his knees up and lean them against the bench so he could fit in.

Watson and Lestrade both removed their shoes, Watson because it made it easier to care for Holmes, Lestrade because he had to sit with his feet on the bench. They had another hour of travel ahead of them and it was the only way to fit the three of them into the small space.

As expected, Holmes remained unresponsive when the growler started to move. The purging had taken much out of him and Watson made sure to check his vitals repeatedly. In between, he and Lestrade discussed their options. The police growler couldn't bring them all the way back to London. Even if it could, transporting an ailing and anxious Holmes over large distances didn't seem like a good option, maybe he would be well enough to travel in a few days, but they had to wait and see.

Watson prayed that Holmes' state was only caused by the dangerous cocktail of drugs in his system and not by the onset of psychosis caused by whatever had been done to him.

Not that it was a priority at the moment, but there was also the matter of the missing fiancé and Watson was sure that the moment the detective's mind cleared he would refuse to leave before the matter was resolved. As soon as White had mentioned the name Portman, Watson was convinced that somehow this was related. Watson for his part was eager to bring as much distance between them and the institution as possible.

.

When the growler stopped in front of a picturesque building it was late afternoon. Watson tried to rouse his friend while Lestrade went in to rent rooms.

"Holmes, wake up," Watson urged and gently nudged his friend's knee.

But Holmes remained dead to the world, which made it easier to carry him up the stairs, because unfortunately the only free room was on the first floor. They gently rolled Holmes onto the bed and Lestrade headed back downstairs to finish the arrangements. The first thing Watson did after washing his hands was to roll Holmes onto his side and unbuckle the strait jacket. Then, the doctor moved him back and forth to free him from the dirty contraption. Under it, Holmes chest was bare. It must have been quite uncomfortable for his sensible skin to have nothing in between the rough denim and his skin.

Holmes blinked owlishly but immediately slipped back into sleep.

As careful and slow as he could, Watson started to examine him. He listened to his chest, palpated his abdomen and checked his lymph nodes, all while softly talking to him like a spooked child.

Apparently, it worked. Holmes moaned and lifted uncoordinated hands now and then but he didn't had it in him to fight his ministrations.

"Shhhh… it's alright… It's just me," Watson cooed.

When Watson felt something bulky under the faded blue trousers' leg, he first tried to pull the fabric up, but it didn't work. There was a bandage under the fabric and he needed to see what was underneath.

Things went downhill from there.

Sherlock drifted through nothingness until hands palpated his throat and brought some awareness back.

Weakly, he tried to batter the hands away without even trying to open his eyes. This time his arms actually moved. His mind stuttered to a halt when the lack of the straight jacket registered. His hands hadn't been exposed to air in a very long time and the unexpected lack of boundaries made him shiver. It felt strange and exposed, threatened to make him lose contact to himself.

"Shhhh… it's alright… It's just me." A voice cooed and there was a touch on his arm.

He knew that touch. But he couldn't trust what he thought he knew any longer.

Furthermore he decided to keep his eyes closed, the only option to withdraw he had left.

What irony. They had taken the restraints off, probably because they deemed him too weak to escape anyway.

He was done.

There was nothing left.

At least that was what he thought until anther new horror was put upon him. When the hands tried to unbutton his trousers his mind threatened to derail in sheer disbelief. His body however mobilised a last effort and dumped adrenaline into his system.

Not that!

There was no way he would wait for them to continue and torture him to death. He would finish it himself to get it over with. He started to kick and flail, forced his eyes open and managed to get off the surface he had been lying on. Half blinded and disoriented he stumbled into the corner of a room he had never seen before and collapsed against the wall.

Glass broke and alarmed voices added to his own distress.

It was so bright his eyes screamed from the pain the blaze caused. His head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat yet he managed to fight the pain and keep them open.

A normal room?

It was neither a cold dark cellar nor a cell in the asylum he gathered from the vague and blurred glimpses of wooden furniture he perceived in between his frantic blinking to clear his vision.

Where had they taken him?

For the first time it dawned on him that something might be happening that he failed to understand. But he wasn't able to grasp the situation, all focus was helplessly washed away by the panic. The cocktail of drugs running though his system was playing havoc on his psyche and his senses.

Had someone even touched his fly buttons?

He couldn't spot anyone close by but his vision was so distorted he was almost blind - and it was worsening, he realised in confusion. It was getting darker.

Sherlock felt the shutdown coming and desperately fought it, but it mercilessly kicked him out of his own head.

.

The attempt to remove the trousers ended with Holmes suddenly screaming and flailing. Watson had barely time to jump back and evade some vicious kicks. In a wild scramble, Holmes rolled off the bed and retreated into a corner like a threatened animal, where he continued to trash, held up by the wall. In his wild dash he had brushed off one of the lamps from the nightstand and it burst into pieces.

Watson's mind shattered with it, witnessing his best friend out of his mind with fear. It was unsettling and heart-breaking. Obviously, Holmes still wasn't recognising anything but his deep-seated anxiety. The fact that trying to unbutton his trouser had send him straight into fight mode alarmed Watson to no end.

Holmes was a strong person, not only physically. Always disciplined and in control, more than capable of a mind-over-matter approach, even when drugged. The doctor had never seen him reduced to mindless misery or blind panic. He was overcome by his own emotions and it was hard not to succumb to his distress.

Not very English, he tried to scold himself.

The days of uncertainty, worries and of desperately hoping Holmes wasn't dead had tipped his own mental balance. He felt drained and ready to crumple, too.

He felt the urge to walk over to Holmes and shake some sense into him, but it was overcome by his professional experience. He knew it wouldn't work, he had seen it in the war. Things like that never worked. The only thing he could do was give Holmes space - at least as long as he wouldn't come too close to the shards of the lamp, so he raised his hands to show he meant no harm and stepped back. He doubted Holmes was able to really see him if his frantic blinking was any indication. Without turning his back Watson sat down in one of the armchairs at the foot of the bed, pretending to ignore Holmes and just wait, give him time to come to his senses.

Instead of calming down though, Holmes started to rock his torso when he found he was no longer physically attacked. His heaving breaths were loud in the rurally decorated room.

It took almost five minutes until Holmes energy was finally depleted. His breath first gained a slightly sobbing quality, then he slid down the wall. A short time later, his knees tilted onto the floor and his eyes rolled back.

Watson waited a few moments before he stood up and checked Holmes' breathing and pulse.

It seemed his friend had succumbed to total exhaustion.

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