Three Is Company

An Alternative To The Asylum

Sherlock POV: Sherlock woke to find Musgrave above him, the Doctor's long fingers prodding his cheeks in order to summon life. The man's eyes opened, soft and hazy, and he immediately felt a returning wave of exhaustion. His face felt raw, his skin felt chapped, as if someone had been rubbing at it with a harsh cloth. The bedroom was just as he had left it, just as he remembered leaving it, when last he chased John Watson down the stairs. It would appear that he had settled to sleep on top of the blankets, though today at least he was clothed. Sherlock stared into the face of his Doctor, and together they shared the fear that was beginning to mount within his chest. It almost went unsaid, though Sherlock felt the need to speak all the same.
"What happened?" he whispered at last. Musgrave took a heaving sigh, sitting down gently on the side of Sherlock's bed and stroking the tangled curls away from Sherlock's eyes. He took a very fatherly approach, though of course Sherlock would never know that. He didn't know how a true father ought to behave.
"Do you not remember calling me?" Musgrave wondered, his voice soft and careful, as if he was trying his best not to arouse Sherlock's suspicions. There was a deeper meaning in all of this, a tragedy which had not yet been stated. Something had happened, hadn't it? Sherlock blinked, trying to think back on what had happened the night before. He had to leap the great chasm that had been left in his memory, a gaping hole of blackness that he himself did not witness. His body had to have gone through some motions, though as for his mind...it was blank. The last memory proved to be a bad one. It was no wonder he had been flung into a bout of emotions he was not prepared to control.
"No." Sherlock admitted, pulling himself into a sitting position and accepting Musgrave's hand to dangle down towards his shoulder, clutching the wrinkles of his pajama shirt in a further effort to connect themselves. The Doctor's face was withered with worry, though he continually tried to hide it. His glasses were transparent, as unfortunately were his eyes. Those dark greys could not hide much for long.
"That's alright. I didn't expect you to. You were...well you were in one of your fits when I arrived." Musgrave admitted grimly.
"Did I tell you what I did?" Sherlock whispered, grabbing at the hand which prodded him and wrapping the fingers tightly within his own. His eyes were wide, frightened, and certainly Musgrave could tell that there was a greater evil among them.
"As far as I could tell you did nothing except make a mess of the house. You were drinking again. You spilled wine on the floor." The Doctor explained.
"Worse still." Sherlock whispered, now clenching the hand so ferociously that Musgrave winced. Thankfully he knew better than to pull away. His entire being was dedicated to therapy, whether the use is in his words or in his body, a body that could serve as a stress ball when necessary.
"You broke your video camera. I will have to replace it." the Doctor guessed.
"Musgrave, I can't tell if you're joking with me or not." Sherlock snarled. "But I have a confession to make. One that...that I swore to keep a secret."
"I am under oath to keep my lips shut, on your behalf." Musgrave admitted. Sherlock nodded, pulling his knees towards his chest to defend himself from the counter attack that Musgrave would amount. Certainly the Doctor, of the most upstanding morals, would realize that he was in the presence of a criminal. And seeing that his feet dangled upon the very spot the act had happened, not twelve hours before, when Sherlock had left his immoral mark upon his neighbor!
"Last night I kissed John Watson." Sherlock admitted, his lips hardly parting to allow the confession into the air. The words themselves sounded more like squeaks, and Sherlock wondered if he had to repeat himself just to further clarify. Though the Doctor was moved, his reaction fitted with the expected surprise. Perhaps, just as he could read a pharmacist's handwriting, he could also interpret the work of mimes. Musgrave's face fell, from concern to disappointment, as his eyes diverted themselves towards the clenched hands which were now gripping with herculean strength. He stared as if to wonder just what sort of filth was now covering his own fingers. Musgrave was silent, for a moment. For a long moment.
"Reginald, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock whined, at last wrenching his hands away from the Doctor's in order to slap life back into his inanimate face. The rims of his glasses stung Sherlock's wary palm, though the contact was enough to blink those glassy eyes, enough to shake the man out of his contemplation.
"I heard you." Musgrave agreed. "Though I hope you have a good defense."
"Defense of what, my character? You know better than I that morals have never been welcome in this house." Sherlock insisted. Musgrave finally got to his feet, the bedsprings relaxing in audible relief. He paced across the floor, glancing out the window once, then twice, before proceeding with his fingers tapping against his lips.
"What happened? What happened...in absolute detail?" Musgrave asked at last, having settled near the dresser where Sherlock's foul breath could not be so close. Sherlock rearranged himself on the bed, not daring to follow in his Doctor's footsteps. He knew where he belonged.
"I was having an episode. Some sort of manic breakdown...I was losing my mind. It felt as if someone else was inside of my head, trying to fight for control of my thoughts. Once I would be myself, the next I would be so...so crude. I was getting thoughts that I never warranted, never considered before. And then I went upstairs, I stepped in front of the window and saw John across the way. Somehow that triggered the final stage, and I collapsed. He came into the house; he dragged me out from under the bed, and in my mania, in my weakened state..." Sherlock cut his words off, trying to think of more adjectives that could parallel with insanity. He had to credit his acts with such a phrase; otherwise Musgrave might believe them to be intentional. Even if he wanted it or not, Sherlock must make the Doctor believe his intentions were always modest.
"You remember it all?" the Doctor clarified, his eyes widening in sudden interest. Sherlock nodded regretfully. He wished that he might have blacked out before he had the ability to comprehend his most heinous actions.
"What did he do?" Musgrave wondered, nearing the edge of the bed only to press his legs against it, as if he knew he was not supposed to draw any nearer. Sherlock pulled at his cheeks, shivering with the effort of explaining his misdeeds.
"He...he was under some sort of spell. He didn't react as he ought to have."
"That's not answering the question. What did he do? Physically, how did he react?" Musgrave repeated, his patience evidentially wearing thin.
"He didn't pull away. Instead...instead he pulled me closer. I don't remember how, I don't remember it all, but he arranged me in such a way that I was wrapped around him. It was the most...the most intimate I've ever been with a man." Sherlock admitted quietly. "He kissed me again."
"So he wanted it, too?" Musgrave presumed. Sherlock bowed his head in remorse, for he could not make such bold accusations just yet. Perhaps in the moment John had wanted to reciprocate, though when the wave of passion had washed over him he remained disgusted, he acted as man in his position ought to have.
"No." Sherlock whispered. "He pulled away. He ran away."
"He sounds conflicted." Musgrave admitted. "That's a good sign."
"Musgrave, don't start encouraging this! You're so...so ambiguous! Just tell me I've sinned, tell me that I've been disgusting, unfaithful, treacherous! For God's sake Reginald, won't you scold me just once in your professional career?"
"As you so readily remind me, I am a professional, and thus I'm entitled to a professional opinion. And that opinion, Sherlock, is that you did nothing wrong. In fact, I am happy to hear the news. I think a love affair would humanize you beyond comprehension. I think John Watson could be better therapy than I was ever able to offer."
"You should get your license revoked." Sherlock snarled.
"Perhaps." Musgrave smiled. "But seeing as though your wellbeing depends wholly on my practice, I suggest we hold off on the slander until you're steady within your own head." That grin on his face was perfectly unbearable, and for the moment Sherlock wrestled himself into a standing position, trying to at least argue with the Doctor from a reasonable and comparable height. Though just as soon as Sherlock took to his feet he found the world much more dizzying than usual, and instead of fighting the Doctor he instead began to lean heavily upon him, using him as a crutch more than an aggressor.
"You need water." Musgrave insisted, beginning to steer the two of them out of the bedroom.
"I need an asylum." Sherlock declared boldly.
"Not anymore, I don't think." The Doctor chuckled, allowing Sherlock to drape an arm around his shoulder as the two made their way carefully down the stairs. Sherlock hobbled along; unsteady on his own two feet, though with Musgrave's assistance he was settled gently upon the couch, in the midst of the ruins he had made of his own living room. Last night must have played host to a particular chaos. As promised there was a large red stain in the wood, the carpet already having been removed for further washing. Musgrave must have tended to the mess before he woke Sherlock, for the whole room stunk of bleach. The camera lens was shattered, the tripod still toppled, though the thin itself was now sitting on the ruined coffee table, pointing in his direction.
"How could I have broken the table?" Sherlock wondered, pulling at a bit of wood that was splintering out.
"Don't touch it." Musgrave scolded, appearing in the room with a glass of tap water and a handful of crackers. "It'll give you a splinter."
"What happened to it?" Sherlock repeated. Musgrave shrugged, handing over the meager breakfast so that Sherlock could build strength enough to walk on his own.
"Anything could have, really. I don't think either of us knows your strength."
"What would I have against the coffee table?" Sherlock wondered through a mouthful of flaky crumbs.
"What would you have against anything? You were drunk and delirious, I'm just thankful the house is still standing." Musgrave chuckled. Sherlock nodded, staring at the camera and only just remembering the last occurrence of his night. At least the last that he could remember.
"I think I turned it on." Sherlock exclaimed. "The camera, I was filming myself!"
"Were you?" Musgrave muttered. "Well, that's a shame."
"No, that's fantastic! If the camera had been rolling while I was blacked out, well then we could see just what..."
"That's impossible. The tape was corrupted, Sherlock. It popped out in the fall, and was destroyed by the light." Musgrave explained. Sherlock winced, frowning through a sip of water and wondering why he even bothered offering theories of usefulness. Eventually he just sank farther into the couch, trying to burry himself deeply into the cushions so as to hide from his descending Doctor. Musgrave took a seat at his side, a large sigh displaying his disappointment with the situation.
"I think you ought to have a discussion with Mr. Watson." He proposed, to which Sherlock's face turned sour.
"No, of course I won't! In fact I don't think I can see him ever again. Our time is over. I've ruined us." Sherlock declared.
"You've done no such thing." Musgrave insisted.
"I can't live here anymore. I'll go to the asylum; I'll use my own money. They can't argue against those who voluntarily admit themselves." Sherlock insisted. "I'm in no state to live on my own."
"Sherlock, consider the implications of that decision." Musgrave insisted, drawing closer so as to make his words more potent. "An asylum would not save you from anything; it would only serve as a prison. You'll not see John again..."
"Good!"
"You'll not see me." the Doctor finished, as if that was his main point all along. Sherlock hesitated, his heart now retreating against its immediate and perhaps misplaced aspirations.
"Well...well won't they let you in? You're my therapist; wouldn't you be able to visit?" Sherlock protested.
"You'd have to get a new therapist, Sherlock. They have their own teams there, different men, who'd have to learn your secrets all over again." Musgrave reminded him. Sherlock clenched his lips, his mouth now dried and uncomfortable.
"That doesn't make any sense." He defended.
"Neither does your choice of going there. Asylums are for people who have no control over themselves, who physically cannot handle their freedom. You, Sherlock, are not one of those people."
"I kissed a married man and broke my coffee table." Sherlock defended.
All that you need is a stable environment. No prison cell. If you don't trust yourself to stay in your house for a while you're welcomed to my guest room. There you'll at least have your freedom, if not your neighbor." Musgrave offered. Sherlock blinked, looking across his house and realizing that these four walls were indeed making him miserable. Perhaps it was the house itself, the energy it carried, that was staining his life with great dark blotches. Too many memories stored inside these cold cement floors.
"I wouldn't want to be a burden." Sherlock protested. Musgrave shook his head reassuringly, his face down turning into one of its most reassuring gazes. He was soft when he wanted to be, he could act however he needed to get the patient to relax. Now was one of those times, when the usually stone cold psychologist converted into a man with saint like tendencies.
"Sherlock, while I am your Doctor I am also at your mercy." The man promised.