March 31st, 1867
The next morning came and when Sherlock woke, he found Lestrade sitting at the secretary across the room.
Sherlock felt not particularly rested, withdrawal had set in and hightened his dicomfort. Every single muscle in his body protested when he sat up and he felt slightly nauseous. This was probably the first time since he was overwhelmed by the asylum carers after discovering Portman's office that he was relatively sober. The upside was that he was no longer feeling flustered. He immediately knew where he was, who he was and why he was there.
The downside was that he felt regurgitated and spat out. The upcoming days would not be enjoyable.
"Morning sunshine," Lestrade greeted him and Sherlock blinked. That remark was so not like the inspector.
"Watson is in my room, sleeping."
So Watson didn't have his own chamber at the inn, this was 'their' room.
Sherlock's universe had been reduced to this single room. He knew nothing about this location and the world beyond the door. During the few bright moments earlier he didn't have the chance to do any more than briefly catalogue the space with it's rural furnishings. His blurry eyesight and fuzzy mental state had kept more insights away.
Now he realised: it wasn't simply a cheap roadhouse they were in. For the first time, he really took in his surroundings. The room was rather spacious and of rectangular shape. The bed was on one end of the room, a wardrobe on the other together with the bureau. Two lavish windows were in the long wall, between them a lavishly decorated washing table, complete with a porcelain bowl and matching jug. Watson's overnight bag stood next to it, together with his doctor's case.
The double sized bed was in the corner on the other long wall. An armchair stood at it's end, matching the other furniture of the room in style. Overall, the room was decorated in pale yellow and orange tones that gave the room an air of lightness that was unusual for the era.
"Do you need me to get him?" Lestrade's voice dragged his focus back to his person before Sherlock had the chance to finish the inspection of the room. Lestrade seemed a bit out of his turf. He probably was.
"I need the bathroom," Sherlock stated before he had consciously registered the pressure on his bladder.
"You need help to get over to the washing basin?"
"No, I need to pee," Sherlock explained, probably a bit too direct if Lestrade's expression was any indication. He seemed a bit surprised by the expression 'bathroom', though.
"Right. Don't get up. Let me fetch you a chamber pot," Lestrade looked around, as if seeking the device and Sherlock felt an odd twinge in his chest.
Chamber pot? Surely, he could manage to use the ensuite. While he was still puzzled about why the DI thought he couldn't, said man left the room.
Fine, he would go there by himself then. Sooner or later he would puke and he better knew where it was by then.
The moment he carefully placed his bare feet on the ground and pushed himself up his body reminded him how stupid the idea of standing was. Dark spots clouded his vision while simultanously the nausea flared up. The night shirt he was wearing dropped down to it's full length, it almost reached his knees. It was an odd sensation to be clad in such a dress like garment. He wondered why Watson didn't wear pyjamas like every sane person. On the other hand, the amount of fabric made it feel close to wearing a sheet but he couldn't say he was fond of the cold air creeping up his legs. By the time the spots vanished from his field of view, he found himself trembling from exhaustion.
It was cold - he needed decent clothes.
The armchair at the foot of the bed was buried under a heap of fabrics, among them seemed to be a pair of Watson's trousers and a well-used jacket. Using his hand to stabilise himself against the wall, he slowly made his way over, all the way fighting the vertigo.
Putting the too short trousers on beneath the bulky nightshirt was awkward but in the end he managed to close the fly button. Moving was wearing him out way faster than he liked. His vision blurred and he had to lean against the wall waiting for it to pass. No chance he could manage to get out of the shirt without sitting down. He fetched the jacket and pulled it on over the shirt. It looked ridiculous, but at least it was warm.
"Holmes?"
He looked up.
Watson was standing in the middle of the room, a bright white chamber pot dangling from his right hand.
"You okay?"
"I need the bathroom," he stated and shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it of the fog. He would not use that thing.
"Ehhh, there is no water closet on this floor, if that is what you mean," Watson said with a frown.
Sherlock frowned, too. There should be a bathroom nearby. Every inn had bathrooms, if not an ensuite then at least one on each floor. His gaze went through the room searching.
How had he missed that there was only one door? It was at the long wall opposite the wooden washing stand.
Why wasn't there a freaking bathroom? And where was he supposed to go once the vomitting started?
"Holmes, we are not in London. This is a rural area. Surely you must know that not everyone can afford the luxury Mrs Hudson spoils us with. There is no indoor plumbing in this place. We are in the middle of nowhere and the building is old."
Mrs Hudson…
The image of their landlady appeared before his inner eye, clad in a knee-length violet dress and with her short hair neatly arranged.
His face hurt.
Right.
It dawned on him that something was off.
Why was he expecting Mrs Hudson to wear short skirts?
Had any woman ever worn short skirts?
The sound of rushing water invaded his mind.
Why was he expecting that inns had ensuite bathrooms?
There must be plumbing, he could hear it.
His mind stuttered to an abrupt halt.
Not plumbing… it was a waterfall he was hearing. The conversation he had with John at the waterfall - he had thought about it just last night - came back to him, not just the line about 'there is always two of us'.
No, there was more!
'I am a storyteller, I know when I'm in one.'
He had forgotten.
Oh god.
He had forgotten! Got lost in his mind palace.
There was a real reality out there and all this was happening was in his mind. The insight caught him off guard and the floor was ripped from beneath his feet.
Reality shifted.
"Dear God, Holmes!" someone exclaimed and his bottom made hard contact with the wooden floor, which was apparently back. Simultanously the earlier only simmering nausea boiled up.
His body was fighting for air and hands were on him. His shoulders were supported by a solid surface and he tilted his head back against it to open his airway.
"Don' touch me… Don' touch me," he stammered, disoriented and lost in the onslaught of memories coming back.
"What is it? What's wrong?... Just breathe… It's okay. You are safe," John murmured close by and a hand came to rest on his brow. Gentle pressure against the pulse in his throat. The smell of Watson's aftershave.
His face felt sore and when the finger touched his brow there was a sharp twinge of pain there.
Stitches.
He flinched.
John had beaten him.
Oh god…
For a long moment his mind was floored by the memories rushing back into his awareness and the sick feeling in his stomach. Both drowned all other input.
Still not awake!
The contrast between John back then and the John in front of him gently soothing him forced his face into a grimace of anguish. The impulse was to lift his hand to guard his head, but he used his force of will to not execute it. He must have reacted in some way, though because the hands suddenly vanished.
He wanted to accept the caring touch, needed it in some way. John being there for him. That was the John his mind wanted, but his body's urge was still to keep him at a distance.
Disappointed trust, rooted deep in his transport's own set of reflexes.
In some way, he was still shocked about his own anger earlier but he now realised it was probably just something that had been present all along and just fuelled by withdrawal. He had fooled himself into thinking the episode in the morgue had just gone by him without further effects. Of course he had expected that John might lash out, but for some reason he struggled with it more than he anticipated and he hated himself for not being able to take it. Maybe it had to do with how intense and brutal it had been. The drugs in his system back then had intensified it even more, not only in a physical way but in an emotional one, too. Yes, he knew a physical attack by his friend had been likely, but he had not foreseen the sheer amount of violence released towards him. The aim of the exercise had been to allow John to vent, then realise how wrong he had been and everything was supposed to go back to normal. Just that it didn't. John had worked himself into an unhinged fit of hate, that only ended because a third party physically intervened. He had not seen that coming, neither had Mary because Sherlock was quite sure otherwise she wouldn't have suggested it.
No matter how much he wanted his mind to overrule the emotional trauma from this, there was a dark area of doubt and distrust in John present that hindered him.
He knew his current situation was not his real life, had known all the time, he had just forgotten to remember this little fact.
Escapism on a whole new level.
He was sabotaging himself.
"Holmes! Slow down… Come on. Look at me."
His body was panting.
It took effort to relax his face. He couldn't see. His vision was once more distorted and dulled.
For a brief moment he considered leaving the mind palace, but the problem was, he was not yet ready to stop running away from the alternate reality's existence he had just remembered.
The mere idea of returning to modern times seemed dangerous and send shivers over his back. Something deep in his unconscious mind was actively fighting to return to 2016 and he apparently had buried it very deep.
Was he supposed to trust his earlier decision to hide in his mind and just go with the scenario he was in or was he supposed to fight it now that he remembered?
The latter was his default setting (because evading the truth was just cowardice) but had it done him any good in the past to always confront it?
Should he just trust his subconscious mind and wait until 2016 came back to him on its own?
He was lost. Indecisive.
Which was something he was not really familiar with, neither was being passive and just wait for it to happen.
"You are worrying me," Watson huffed and his gentle fingers returned to his wrist to monitor his pulse.
Yes, he definitely wanted that touch, the easy physical intimacy they used to share.
Needed it to ground him.
John was actually trying to make it up to him, was honestly sorry about how he behaved.
Why was he not able to receive and concede that?
"I am losing my mind," he slurred, meaning it literally and figuratively, but Watson couldn't know what he had just understood. This was his escape from a real world he had temporarily and deliberadly displaced, a vacation from reality of sorts because he needed a break.
"You are not. Don't worry about it now. Fearing you might is probably caused by all those nasty drugs in your system. Let's just wait for them to flush out. You'll be able to see it all from another angle then… You are not going crazy. As soon as you are strong enough to travel we will return to Baker Street. It will be all right," John soothed. His voice was both, careful and caring as well as firm and affirmative.
All Watson probably wanted was to learn what had happened to Sherlock in the asylum, but he refrained from starting a discussion of the topic, presumably afraid he might worsen Sherlock's agitation.
"Well, I understand that you fear that you can't trust yourself, but it will pass. The clearer you get, the more you'll realise they tried to manipulate you, my dear fellow. They wanted you to think you are insane to make you more compliant."
It was refreshing how Watson was completely unaware of the fact that it was not only himself he was currently struggling to trust but also that there was an alternative version of him in Sherlock's mind. Although, during his last stay in the Victorian Era there had been moments when Watson was indeed aware.
Was he really? Maybe Watson had thought real life John was imaginary?
No. 'I'm a storyteller, I know when I'm in one.'
At the waterfall, Watson had asked him what his other self was like. Currently, Sherlock was at a loss about which reality he really belonged to - or wanted to belong to. He opened his eyes.
"I am relieved to see you exhausted but yourself," Watson let go of his wrist and smiled at him. The dim light coming through the windows was still too bright and Sherlock had to squint his eyes.
He gave Watson a small smile in return. "Thank you for getting me out of there. They were driving me nuts. Diagnosed me with mania… monomania and delusions," he pressed out. The nausea was slowly diminishing, he noted. "Elaborate. How did you find me?"
Still kneeling in front of him, Watson started to explain - again, but this time in detail - how they had found him.
.
Half an hour later, reflecting what his friend told him and in a clearer mind, Sherlock had to admit that Watson had indeed worked hard to find him. Nevertheless, in the end, it was his own letter that had saved him.
"I do believe it would be a good idea to get off the floor," Watson suggested, his voice contained a hint of amusement. He was right. It was getting quite cold, but Sherlock had somehow felt safer in the corner, wedged in between the bed and the wall with his knees up.
Watson stood and fetched the old asylum clothes from the armchair before he angrily threw them onto the floor next to his bags.
Not very Watson-like, that.
Next, he helped Sherlock to the armchair, who gratefully accepted the support.
"Well, there is an investigation. As soon as Lestrade and I realised that Portman was the asylum's superintendent we drew the conclusion that you might not be the only one hidden there. Portman is suspended. Local police is trying to find Emilia Rowe and gather evidence for the falsified referrals."
As Watson explained, his gaze fell onto the discarded chamber pot on the floor, "Good Lord, I forgot. You needed a leak?" Watson was back to doctor mode.
Sherlock, now aware that this was his mind's stage reminded himself that he should be able to manipulate the setting if it suited him. He closed his eyes and focussed on sensing that his imaginary bladder was empty.
It didn't work.
Still not back in control, then.
But at least he had Watson back and this meant things would get better. Spending time in the Victorian era was legitimate, as long as he was out of that godforsaken asylum. He could do this. There probably was a good reason his subconscious was doing it this way and he concluded that he wanted to trust the process. His earlier doubts were probably due to how hard a time he had with it recently. He decided to not even try to return to 2016 because he was sure it wouldn't work and also he was entirely not ready to face reality and John's guilt, yet. Being where he was felt right for now.
Just lean back into this scenario and see what happens, allow the setting to unfold, he told himself.
"Yes, I suppose, I do need to pee," he answered, "Is there a privy?"
"Out in the back. But I don't think you should…"
"I will go to the privy!" he stated and Watson helped him up without further comment.
.
It took them almost half an hour until they were back in their room and Sherlock was so depleted and tired he was trembling with fatigue when he sat on the bed.
"You need rest… and bathing," Watson stated.
"And a shave," Sherlock added. His stubble had grown so much it was becoming a beard and he didn't like it, it was annoyingly itchy. The foul taste in his mouth was even more irritating.
"Of course. Let me get you some hot water. You're okay here for a bit?" Watson carried the chair from the bureau over to the washing stand and gestured him to sit down there.
Sherlock nodded and his friend left the room.
It barely took three minutes until Watson came back, carrying a shaving-tackle, towels, and other utensils. The first thing he offered to Sherlock was a new wooden toothbrush (that looked way too big to do any efficient cleaning) and a small round tin of dentifrice in form of tooth powder.
"Certainly, I will not put that in my mouth, it's made of ground cuttlefish. Get something else. And I want an entire box of new toothbrushes… I will only use them once."
"I know. You have been absent for a bit more than two weeks. That is not enough time for me to forget your percularities." Watson rolled his eyes while he unpacked the shaving-tackle and laid the items out on the wash-stand in front of them.
Sherlock couldn't believe it had been only two weeks, it felt like months.
A knock on the door dragged him out of his thoughts.
"Enter," Watson said when he remained silent.
Lestrade peeked in, placed a jug with hot water on the ground and left again. Watson fetched it and poured it into the washing basin.
All in all, Sherlock found it was somewhat relaxing to remember this was not real. No need to care for monetary or resource-saving environmental issues. He could use a new toothbrush every time he liked. His senses were messed up already and every reflective surface was irking him; the last thing he needed was using things that repulsed him like unhygenic toothbrushes or that tooth powder in his mouth. It might send him back to a sensory hell that triggered another episode of intense anxiety. Trying to shave was already a balancing act, no need to overdo it at this point.
Sherlock started to spread the shaving soap on his face, but even that proved to be difficult. He dropped the brush twice and made a mess in his lab. When he picked up the blade, determined to get rid of his annoying facial hair no matter what, Watson gently caught his hand and took hold of the razor in his trembling fingers. He was clearly not trusting him with a tool as sharp as this right now.
Sherlock froze for a moment before he took a deep breath and let go of the razor. He allowed Watson to take it from his hand, because he wanted to rebuilt their trust and the normalcy they had before. It meant surrendering to Watson's care and this definitely was an opportunity to put his trust on display - even if it was only in his mind, a good practice for later. For him it was a big thing, for Watson probably not so much. The doctor was used to taking care of patient's physical needs, it was his routine business. And although Sherlock hated needing help and there was a risk that it might be more uncomfortable than doing it himself, this was a step towards healing the festering wound that was John's rejection.
Sherlock offered him the brush and looked at his friend's face.
Their eyes met.
Then one corner of Watson's mouth travelled up, giving him a relieved smile.
"Want me to leave a moustache? You're already halfway there to grow a proper one."
"God, no!" Sherlock protests and Watson downright laughed.
And there it was, the easy normalcy of their relationship Sherlock had missed so much.
With a shy smile on his soapy lips he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, surrendering to John's gentle ministrations.