30 Days. (Part 1 of the 30 Days fanfic series)

Five: Mind Palace

It was quiet, and felt empty. And everything was dark. . . .

Why was everything so dark?

And then Sherlock Holmes knew why: his eyes were closed. Obviously. The detective's eyes slowly opened to a blurry-filled world, but his vision became clearer. He looked around, noticing he was in a room of white walls and laid in a bed too uncomfortable and not very homely to be his own, and the room smelled like a hospital: medicine, the sick, depression, and gloom. It nearly overwhelmed his senses. Of course, it was clear now where he was---a hospital.

But why?

Sherlock turned to watch as the door of his hospital room opened, and John Watson stepped in. He had a concerned look on his face, but he also looked angry. This confused the other. Why did he look like he wanted to hug him, but choke him at the same time? Most importantly, what the hell was going on, and why was he in the hospital? I want answers, not be taken in a hospital. Stupid Mind Palace, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly, feeling impatient. He really didn't have time for this. But he allowed his impatience to simmer down a bit as he watched his best friend approach, genuinely curious at the retired army doctor's mix of emotions. He had grabbed a chair and dragged it over close to the detective's bed and sat down with a heavy sigh through his nose, as if he had a very long day. "It's a good thing you're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, still as puzzled as ever. What did John mean?

"I'm fine, of course."

To his surprise, John's lips pursed in what looked like irritation. "No you're not, Sherlock, stop lying. You can't lie to a fucking doctor."

"I don't know what you're talking about, John. . . ."

Dr. Watson gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "So the drug you took made you lose your memory too, huh? Is that what you're saying? You know, Sherlock, it's really not fair. It's not fair to make me worry like this. So I have a damn right to be pissed off with you. The least you can do is show some sympathy, instead of being so. . . . Sherlock-ish and talking to me like I'm an idiot. Because I'm your best friend. Not an idiot."

Sherlock relasped into silence. He wasn't really sure how to respond, because he honestly had no idea what John was talking about. He had never seen his flatmate look so. . . hurt. Past those eyes of anger, he saw his world crashed down. But why? What had he, Sherlock Holmes, done to make him feel this way?

A drug. He mentioned a drug. But he didn't remember taking any kind of drug. John gave a huff of frustration at Sherlock's still puzzled expression. He turned his head away, staring at nothing in particular, if only to avoid his friend's beautiful eyes, once lively but now dull. "They said you'd be going into a coma soon. . . . Whatever kind of drug you took. . . It's slowly putting you into one. That's what the doctor said. The one prescribed for you, I mean."

"But I don't have a prescribed doctor. You're my doctor(technically speaking)."

John bit his lip, trying to tame the fiery anger that threatened to boil over. "Well, I prescribed one for you on the spot, Sherlock, because I honestly don't know what was wrong with you! You have been keeping this secret from me for two bloody weeks! I have emotions, alright, I did go into shock. A doctor can't be of help if he's in shock!"

"Why were you in shock?" It struck Sherlock as odd that John would ever go into shock. He was trained in the military to be tougher than nails, to have nerves of steel, so that when he was placed into the battlefield, he didn't become paralyzed with fear at the sound of gunshots and screaming, or faint at the sight of wounded or dying men. So why did he act this way? This didn't seem like the John he knew. The John he knew would be level-headed with a calm mind as he worked on saving Sherlock. Whatever it was Sherlock needed saving from. John had become silent for a long time before speaking.

"You were not yourself, Sherlock. I wasn't expecting--I didn't know what to do. . . ."

The detective stared at him with confusion filled in his grey-blue eyes. Not myself?

John hugged himself tightly, as if remembering the memory was too much to bear. "They were going to lock you up," he continued. "It was that bad. But I refused it. I wanted you to be put into hospital first. So I called an ambulance. Of course, you gave them a thin time, so. . . . I had to knock you out. I'm sorry." He paused for a minute, licking his dry lips. He looked tired. Exhausted. "I told Lestrade to give you some time to stay in hospital, to see how you recovered, and that you didnt really harm me. He gave me a chance, but there wasn't much he could give, but he would try to convince the rest of Scotland Yard. Everyone had begrudgingly agreed; even Donovan and Anderson. Thus, you were put into hospital for quite a while and still here. . . . Whatever drug you put yourself through, it was a lot worse than you think. Not only did it almost land you in prison, and land you in the hospital, but now you will be going into a coma, and the doctor, everyone else, doesn't know how long. I don't even know how long."

Sherlock was quiet for a very long time. He didn't understand. . . . What was this drug that he took which seemed to turn him into someone dangerous? John slowly looked over at him. He licked his lips again and gave a soft sigh. "As much as I hate you at the moment, Sherlock, know that I'm still very worried for you. I care for you. A lot. So. . . . Don't let that bloody coma take you away from me forever, alright? Because I. . . . I can't live without you." The detective wasn't sure how to respond. He looked surprised as John grabbed his cold hand in his, squeezing tightly. "Don't do this to me, not again. No more tricks. You don't have to play dead anymore."

"John, I--"

"Just get better. I fucking swear, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do not. . . . Do not do this to me. Come back so that I could punch you and-and make up with you." Before Sherlock could try to speak again (feeling beyond baffled by John's choked, emotional words), his best friend let go of his hand, stood, and turned to walk out. He refused to look back. He just couldn't. Or else he would just break down, and Sherlock didn't deserve that yet. Not after what he had done to himself. The consulting detective silently watched John leave the room, closing the door behind him. After the sound of the door closing, the world inside of the sickly-scented, white-walled room fell back into silence. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, taking in everything he had just learned.

What had I done?