The Name is Sherlock Holmes and the Address is 221B Baker Street

Chapter 2

Sherlock had been staring at the white ceiling for hours- or that's what he thought, at least. He couldn't tell what was happening, what was true, what was false, or if it was all true, or all false. He just remembered that one time in his life, he did. But not anymore. The door to his room opened and a nurse shuffled into the room. Sherlock made no effort to move, or to acknowledge their presence.
"Mr William Holmes?" The nurse questioned as she placed what he guessed was his glass of water. "Mr-"
"Yes." Sherlock sighed, suddenly sitting up, startling the nurse.
"Take these..." She said, passing him the various medicines, but Sherlock didn't turn to look at her.
"You're new."  He stated. She bit her lip and took something out of her pocket. "What's that?" His asked, and his head snapped in her direction and she swiftly grabbed his wrist.
"I'm sorry Mr Holmes, but..." the nurse trailed off as she injected the liquid into a vein, after quickly preparing his wrist. This drug didn't set Sherlock off to sleep like the others, instead it messed with his mind- to the point he couldn't think properly. His vision got blurry, and he blinked a few times- trying to see clearly. "Just relax." She said, pocketing the needle.

Thumping music filled his ears and lights filtered the colours that he saw, making them a pink, red, blue or green colour, occasionally white once the cycle had run through a few times. He sat waiting on a seat next to a table as people danced near him, but he kept his gaze on his best friend. Or, he tried to, but the alcohol that he had consumed messed with his vision and his brain, causing his gaze to occasionally drift away, and make his thoughts wonder to things he'd never normally think unless it was for a... whatever it was he did. His friend... Graham? James? No, John! Sherlock realised and mentally crowned himself for remembering. His friend, John, made his way over to him, doing his best as to not spill the drinks he carried in his hands.

"Can't let your mind go wondering..." The nurse sighed. This wasn't the new one, it was the one who had a grudge- or something- against him. He tried his best to sit up, realising that he was sweating and felt a sense of dread creeping up on him. The dream had seemed too real. It felt like a memory. But he couldn't remember it anymore. As he tried to get up, strong hands kept him in place and a needle was pulled out of his arm. Whatever that... liquid was, he decided that he didn't like it. It kept the closest things to memories that he had away from him. It made him feel alone, confused and empty. He felt like a machine- no, worse. He needed to keep whatever they were, hallucinations, dreams or memories, close to him, otherwise he wouldn't know what was right from wrong. Maybe he'd trust his so called 'Doctor'. Now he couldn't allow that, could he?

He sat in the canteen, a person who he'd not bothered to remember the name of sat in front of him. The person only agitated him, but reminded him. Reminded him of the fact that where he was may be false.
"What's your name again?" Sherlock asked the man in front of him, hoping that if he knew this person's name that it could rekindle anything. Memories, facts or other names he knew before he entered the asylum- which date still seemed blurred to him.
"Phillip." The man sighed in front of him, "You ask this every day. I don't know why I sit with you."
"Because it's the seating chart. And I remind you of someone." Sherlock said, not looking at the now nodding Phillip.
"William-" Phillip began.
"I told you before, I prefer being called Sherlock." Sherlock said, and he took a bite of his mashed potato and spat it out in disgust. It was cold and not properly made, and, now on the corner of the plate, laid a single tablet. "What am I, some sort of animal?" Sherlock grumbled, pushing his tray of food away. He did not feel hungry anymore. He went to sip his lemon juice, or whatever it was, when Philip spoke again.
"I wouldn't drink that if I were you." He said, pointing to Sherlock's drink.
"Are you a sort of conspiracy theorist or something?" Sherlock asked grumpily.
"No. Well, yes, but I saw them put a weird sort of powder into it. Probably more medicine. There's cups next to the sink. I would get that instead if I were you- that's what everybody else does. You'd think after being here for so long, you'd catch onto these things by now, Wil- Sherlock." He quickly saved. Sherlock picked his cup and walked to the sink. He saw one of the nurses watching him intently, so he false drank all of the water, before rinsing the cup out and filling it again. When he looked back at the nurse, she looked relieved. So Philip was right. From what he could tell, that was new. He sat back down on his chair and waited for them to serve the pudding.

"I don't know anymore, John. What's real, what false. I can't tell." Sherlock complained to his friend. This wasn't a memory- Sherlock was talking to John in his mind, like an imaginary friend. Oh, how he hoped John was real. "I think I'm loosing. Wether this is real or not, I want to keep these... Memories. There, in the asylum, they're force-feeding me memories. Things I don't remember. I know what I remember, but soon, I may not."
"Don't be stupid Sherlock. You're smarter than this." John sighed, putting his newspaper down.
"What?" Sherlock questioned, turning from the window to his friend.
"I said, don't be stupid. You know what to do." John said. Sherlock smiled. John was right.
But he couldn't remember when his eyes opened to the asylum once more.
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A very short chapter, but I really wanted to update this soon and I have exams so... yay, update? :) Thanks for reading, I'll update as soon as I can and yeah. Also, new cover! Opinions? (Also I haven't corrected any mistakes so when I see one, I'll correct it :) )