I Am Sher-Locked Up

Hello?

Andrew

"Hello, you've reached Riverside Achievement Center, this is Andrew, how may I help you?" 

Andrew answers the phone in his falsely cheery voice he was being paid to use. 

The voice in the other line is silent for a minute, then speaks in a low voice,

"Hello, Andrew. I'm looking to..." The voice falters a bit. Andrew suppresses a sigh; he would be done with his shift after this call and he was eager for the guy to hurry it along.

"I'm looking to check myself in." The man says with a finality. Andrew nodded, then remembered that the bloke couldn't see him. 

"All right, sir, may I ask your name?"

"Sh-Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." 

Andrew scribbles his name down before saying, "Okay, Mr. Holmes, you need to come to our main complex on building 310 on High Street in London, all right? We have a couple beds left, we should be able to fit you in."

The voice sighs in what could be relief, or resignation, and thanks Andrew before hanging up.
Andrew pulls on his coat, shaking his head, "So many suffering  souls and not nearly enough kindness to save them all."

***

John

John sits in his room, staring at the wall. He is faintly aware of dried tear tracks on his cheeks, but doesn't care enough to get up and wash them off. Maybe if he just stays there, and never moves, then he won't have to face Sherlock's haunted eyes again. Maybe if he slows his breathing and heartbeat to a crawl, and lets static fill his mind, then he won't have to remember the words Sherlock said and the deadness of his voice. If he could just stay there forever, he might be able to forget the way his lips crashed against Sherlock's and begged for love but remained unrequited. John's eyes burn, but he doesn't want to close them in fear of seeing the detective's gaunt and tortured face.
A door slams, jerking him out of his waking nightmare. John startles a bit, before sighing shakily and poking his head out the door.
Sherlock was gone.

***

Sherlock

Sherlock strides down Baker Street, not bothering to hail a cab despite the fact High Street was 12 blocks away. His collar is turned up against the wind, keeping the cold out of his face but not out of his heart. His mind is dead right now, which is a 180° whip around from the constant buzzing and muttering of his freight train brain, the constant whispering of deductions of people he passed by on the street. Silence has fallen over him, and that's when he knows he has made the right choice. 

Half an hour later, he arrives at the Riverside Hospital ER. He signs himself in at the front desk, takes one of the sticky wristbands he has come to hate from the receptionist, and sits down in the waiting room. He catches sight of a little girl, no older than 7, staring at him. He finds himself smiling at her youthful innocence, and then he realizes that one day, she could be him. She was a girl, after all, and much more likely to become weighted by depression and anxiety and the feeling of never being good enough. One day she might look in the mirror and hates what she sees, seeing fat where there is none, and finding imperfections that no one else notices. She might one day resort to a blade to escape, maybe diet pills to make her pretty. Sherlock looks away because he doesn't want to see what he used to be before this.

Finally, when the sun has nearly kissed the horizon, a tired looking nurse calls his name, 

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock nods and stands, joints popping and muscles complaining from being seated for so long.

"Right this way, sir."

And for the first time, Sherlock comes willingly through those doors.

~Many hours later~

"Well, Mr. Holmes, this is your unit. I trust you know where everything is?"

Sherlock nods, pulling at the plastic bracelet encircling his wrist. "This is hardly my first time, Lawrence, don't treat me like a child."

Lawrence laughs, "And here I was thinking you had changed, Sherlock. I should have known better."

Sherlock feels a smile tugging at his mouth. Lawrence had always been a friend to him at this place.
Sherlock walks into the dayroom where the patients are sat eating their evening snack. His heart jumps into his throat and he stops dead in his tracks. Food.
The patients seated at the table look up at him curiously, and then resume eating after looking him over. Sherlock tried deducing them to calm himself down, but his mind was just buzzing with one word: food.
A nurse coughs, drawing his attention away. 

"You are Sherlock?" 

Sherlock nods, "Yes."

The nurse directs him in the direction of his fellow nutjobs and seats him, placing a pudding cup and a plastic box of juice in front of him, serving him as if he were a five year old at day care.
Sherlock sits and says nothing. He knows that he won't be forced to eat on his first day.
The evening ends and Sherlock and the other patients are sent to their rooms for the night.

***

A/N
Okay guys, here it is. Sherlock is locked up. Can we do a little constructive criticism? Comments have been kind of uniform lately ("good job!" "Update please!") so I kind of want to know what you guys want to see and how I can improve. Is that chill? Aight thanks.

-Hannah