Part 2 of Shanna conquers writing anxiety by posting "Sherlock wakes up in a mental hospital" fic
Here's Bit 1, btw
“Where is John?”
“Please calm down, Mr. Holmes.”
“I am perfectly calm,” Sherlock growled back.
“Oh yes, “ the nurse replied with a little laugh, “I can see that.”
Sherlock was aware that he was pacing and that the way he was pulling at his hair, he probably looked decidedly not calm. The man in the scrubs was talking again and waving his arms in a way that was probably intended to be soothing. Why couldn’t he shut up? Why couldn’t he just go away? Wasn’t it clear that Sherlock needed to think?
The world was wrong. Very wrong and yet not entirely.
He was still wearing his favorite blue dressing gown. Still? No, he hadn’t changed last night, had simply collapsed onto his sofa at home so entirely exhausted that John hadn’t even bothered to free him of his coat.
Had he been kidnapped? Drugged to keep him unconscious until he had reached this place that was very much not 221B Baker Street? It would have taken quite the cocktail and he could still feel the after effects; the lethargy in both body and mind.
Think.
Concentrate.
Focus.
Analyze.
The bearded, overly genial male nurse was chatting into some sort of portable phone and was now flanked by two colleagues. To the right, a ginger gentleman who still lived at home with his mother, well to do so he’s there out of responsibility? pity? no, compassion. To the left, another blonde but clean-shaven and older with flecks of gray hair at the temples. Poor, this one is, judging by the nicks of his cheap razor. The majority of his income goes to child support. Two offspring? No, three. Two are still minors though. All girls, obviously.
Three pairs of eyes all looking at him with brows tight with concern and perhaps alittle fear. Boring. If this were a kidnapping, Moriarty and Mycroft would certainly be the most likely of suspects. The security seems downright sheepish in quality so hardly the type to be in the employ of James Moriarty. And while the accommodations are sterile (laminate counters, utilitarian cupboards, uncomfortable seating) they are also dressed with the intention of providing emotional comfort (gauzy white curtains over the blinds, a plush blue comforter as the foot of the bed, cheerfully dull landscape paintings adorn each wall.)
So medical in function but with long-term care in mind.
If something had happened to him, it seemed like the sort of place that Mycroft would have brought him to. What had occurred that night at Baker Street? Perhaps another bomb, this time much closer to home? Sherlock runs his fingers over his face and chest but everything feels intact. Perhaps the attack was something less violent like poison administered during a late-night break-in by a criminal with Moriarty’s grudge but without his insane need for mind games.
Still, he was annoyed that he couldn’t rule out non-internal damage. The very smell of the room suggested that he had been here quite some time. A coma then? He could have been out long enough to heal. It was hard to say. The facts weren’t coming together the way they should.
Something had happened in the flat and now he was here, wherever that was. John had been home as well, no girlfriend at the moment to give him a reason to spend the night elsewhere and he’d hardly gotten much more sleep than Sherlock over the past several days - or what had been the past several days to him, but likely not anymore. Had it been a week or two? It couldn’t have been as long as a month? Or could it?
So John would have been there. And yet he wasn’t here now. Another room then. Surely Mycroft wouldn’t have dragged him out to some posh, private country hospital (that particular type of tree growing just beyond his window was practically unfound in the city proper) and left John to recover in one of the London medical centers.
“Where’s John?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes?” The bearded nurse had at some point ended the call on his portable and now had to secured his hip. The three men had moved away from the interior space of the room and were now standing collectively beside the door. The proximity of each to the other implied a discussion made in lowered voices.
“I need to see Dr. John Watson. He should be a patient here though perhaps he has already been discharged. Either way, I know he’ll be around somewhere.”
“Mr. Holmes, you know that you’re here as a patient?” inquired the ginger nurse, his head cocked as if speaking to a small child.
Insufferable morons. Were there no medical professions on the planet capable of following a basic request without standing around looking wide-eyed? Atleast, John followed through when he was asked, even if he still did so with a face lined with confusion.
“Of course, I know that I’m a patient. Even a half-wit could deduce that he was a patient when confronted with an army of men in scrubs and the sight of antiseptic soap by the sink. Now, will you tell me where I can find Dr. Watson?”
“Alright then, sure. We’ll take you to see the doctor now.”