I Am Sher-Locked Up

A Glimpse Into the Mind of a Sociopath

Sherlock

Bored bored boredboredboredbORED!!!!!
Sherlock paces his room--cell, really--about ready to smash his head in with the desk in the southwestern corner of the 20.75 x 15.1 sized room.
Sherlock had forgotten how boring these hospitals were. That was the hardest part. Being alone with his freight train of a mind with nothing to distract himself with.
Sherlock pauses, hearing footsteps outside his closed door. He opens the door and pokes his head out, blatantly breaking the rules but Sherlock is not able to care less.
"It's just me, Sherlock. Go back to your room," Lawrence says with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Group is in ten minutes, so just sit tight."
Lawrence gives Sherlock a sympathetic look, which irritates Sherlock, but he's too grateful about being given a time limit to really dwell on it.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi...
Sherlock begins to count the seconds in his head. Patients weren't allowed a watch, which Sherlock saw as pointless, as he was much more likely to want to smash his head in if he didn't know how long he was sitting in a cell.
Ten agonizing minutes pass, and then five more, and Sherlock feels as if he's going to explode. He gets up from his bed and looks out the tiny window that provides a limited view of the hall he was located in.
Lawrence is already there, opening the door to a startled Sherlock.
"Christ, Sherlock, you about gave me a heart attack!" Lawrence laughs, clutching his chest in mock fright. Sherlock feels a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. Lawrence had always made Sherlock's stays a little more bearable.
Lawrence escorts Sherlock and the other patients into a room on the other side of the hospital.
A balding man--Mr. Wally, Sherlock remembers--with spectacles on the end of his rat-like nose sat in a chair with several other chairs arranged in a semi circle in front of him.
"Ah, Sherlock!" he says, surprised, "I didn't know you were back again."
Sherlock nods coolly and says nothing.
"And haven't changed a bit, I see," the man says resignedly.
"People never do, do they?" Sherlock replies easily, his mouth wanting to smile again.
Mr. Wally flashed a funny, lopsided grin at Sherlock and turned his attention to the group, who had seated themselves and were looking at Mr. Wally expectantly.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to group! I see a couple new faces, so..."
Sherlock tunes Mr. Wally out like he had done so many times before, and delves into his mind palace.
As he wanders the halls of his mental kingdom, he is suddenly assaulted by memories. Memories of John.
Images flash by, each one so fast that even Sherlock couldn't differentiate between the individual memories.
I am rushing into Lestrade's lab, excited about the serial suicides, rattling off a string of deductions to piss him off, and take no notice of the army doctor leaning on an unneeded cane. Suddenly, through all the chaos, one word prevails--
"Brilliant."

I am staring into piercing blue eyes, and the owner asks me, "Do you have one? A girlfriend, I mean."
"No."
"A boyfriend, then?"
"While I am flattered by the offer, I consider myself married to my work--"
Panic floods through the sapphire irises and I realize my mistake.

I am standing on the roof of a ten story building. I see John looking around, so many feet below, a phone pressed to his ear. I manage to say goodbye, my throat closing up as I struggle to breathe. Suddenly, I'm falling, the wind whipping my coat as I plummet to my death, the sound of John shouting my name the only thing I could hear.

My mind is ablaze with noise and demons plague my vision. Insanity is threatening to take me, when I feel a pair of lips on mine, cutting through the panic, breaking through the fear. I'm took startled to kiss back, but I can taste the salt of the tears and the heat of John and the taste of John and the feeling of John and John--
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock."

"Sherlock!" Mr. Wally's voice penetrates Sherlocks inner chaos and Sherlock sits bolt upright immediately.
"Yes?" he replies with more venom than necessary.
"It's your turn."
My turn? "My turn? For what, sorry?"
Mr. Wally sighs, all too used to the bag of cats that was Sherlock's brain. "We are going around introducing ourselves and saying two reasons why we're here--"
"Pass," says Sherlock indifferently.
Mr. Wally opens his mouth to say something, but closes it almost immediately.
"All right, next...Amanda, is it?"
Sherlock begrudgingly gives his attention to the bone-thin woman with faded purple hair sitting next to him, if not just to keep his mind off a certain hazel-eyed somebody.

***

John

John stares at the visitation application that had been faxed to him from Riverside. The logo of a waterfall glares at him from the top corner of the paper.
John doesn't know why he's so hesitant to fill it out. He knows Sherlock won't decline it.
But what if he does?
"Shut up," John mutters to the nagging voice in his head. "He won't."
John realizes, once again, how empty the flat is. He misses how Sherlock would sit and stare at the wall for hours on end, absorbed in his mind, but his presence still emanated a sort of comfort for John. He misses how Sherlock would stay up till ungodly hours and play that damn violin, long, wailing melodies that modeled a cat's crying.
But most of all, John misses the way Sherlock looked at him. The way he'd allow just a little emotion--just a little, not very much--into his eyes and a smile would crinkle the corners of his sea green eyes and a smirk would play across his lips when Sherlock realized John was looking at him the same way. John can't believe he didn't see that before.
And the kiss. John had tried time and time again to formulate how the kiss would have turned out in any other circumstances, how it would have played out if Sherlock hadn't been on the edge of madness. John tried not to be hurt when Sherlock didn't kiss back, but really, how would anyone feel in that sort of situation? John was only human, after all.
John sighs and resolutely begins filling out the form. Mycroft had been right before, surely he could be right again.
John finishes the application, scans it, and sends the copy back to Riverside.