Lock Down

[livia_carica]

Title: Lock Down
Author: Livia_Carica
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: T, so far.
Summary: Sherlock being crazy is one of John's favorite things about him and he'll fight tooth and nail for Sherlock's right to be himself.
Disclaimer: Clearly Not Mine.
A/N: I apologise in advance if any of this is horrifically off target or triggery for anybody. I mean no offense. Also has bad words and obnoxious Sherlock. Also, it really is utter rubbish, and I realise that it is virtually impossible to break someone out of a psychiatric ward with a doctor's coat and some forged papers.  For the sherlockbbc_fic prompt here

“I’d like to see him,” John thought he sounded remarkably calm.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the young nurse behind the desk didn’t even look up at him, just carried on staring at his computer screen.

“I’ve been here hours.”

“Sir, I have told you before,” John detected a Scottish drawl all but drowned out by the London accent. “We can’t let anybody in to see him until he’s been stabilized.” John resisted the urge to punch something and returned to his seat.

"Right now, he’s a danger not only to himself but others, so we’ll be keeping him in," the doctor who had finally barged into the waiting room explained at John in the no-nonsense manner of a man who’d spent his entire career dealing with the deranged. "But you can go see him."

They’d admitted Sherlock to a small room off a long corridor brightly lit with buzzing fluorescents and with floors that made John’s shoes squeak. The door was closed but on testing it, he found it unlocked and he didn’t know whether that scared him or reassured him. Surely they didn’t just let people who were dangers to themselves and others just wander the hospital? The place was eerily quiet, so he had to come to the conclusion that no, they didn’t but he had a nasty feeling they had another way of locking down their patients, one that didn’t involve lock and key.

His heart sank as he slipped through the door and watched the man in the bed silently for a few minutes. Sherlock, who could work out a man’s history from the mud on his shoes, didn’t even notice he was there. He was awake, in as far as his eyes were half open; he was staring at something outside the small barred window, possibly even the window itself, more probably just thin air. His hair was matted and looked wet, and his face slack. A large woman in an obnoxious and incongruously bright set of nurse’s scrubs was writing something on a chart at the end of the bed. She looked up at him and smiled, said hello.

John’s voice had disappeared.

“John!” Sherlock finally noticed him with the nurse’s greeting. His voice was low, slurred. “Come in, come in!” It was as if he was inviting him in for a cup of tea. “This is Shelly…. She’s my nurse…”
John cleared his throat. “Erm…. Pleased to meet you.” He had unconsciously adopted his military stance, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“John here is a doctor. Much better than the cunts in this place,” Sherlock struggled to get up. She gently pushed him back and John’s heart lurched when he saw the restraints on his wrists. Shelly caught his expression and smiled what was probably her reassuring smile.

“It’s just a precaution, don’t worry. He was a bit punchy when he arrived.” She reset the pillow behind Sherlock’s head.

“Oh, do fuck off, Shelly,” Sherlock sneered, finally giving up the fight and falling back. John had a hard time keeping the grin off his face. There was still some of the Sherlock he knew in there.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said as she pushed past him.

“Oh, don’t worry, love, I’m used to it. If I fucked off every time one of them told me to, I’d have been to the bloody moon and back by now. The place is full of them.” She patted his arm.
Oh, not like this one, John thought.

“They thought it was me, didn’t they? Wiring all those people up?”

“They did,” John said. “They don’t now.” He gently undid the Velcro on the restraints at Sherlock’s wrists.

“Oh, thank you.” He brought his thin arms to his chest and stretched them out, rubbing at his elbows. He looked horrific, John thought, sunken, collapsing in on himself. The energy that sustained him, moved him onward, was gone and he was burnt out. A brief cloud of confusion crossed his face and he tried to focus on John.

It broke John’s heart.

“ Why…” he trailed off, his eyes slipped from John’s face and he frowned. “I… Sorry. The medication makes it hard to think sometimes. Well, all the time, to be honest.” And he’d smiled. John had never seen anything more disconcerting in his life as that dopey grin, at Sherlock laughing about them taking away what drove him, for Christ’s sake, at the complete absence of rage at what they were doing. John raged for him.
He hadn’t seen Sherlock since the incident at the pool. Every day after he himself had been released from the hospital, he had turned up at the high security psychiatric ward and waited in the waiting room, drinking tea from little plastic brown cups and bothering the duty nurse. The waiting was punctuated by calls from Lestrade, with a narration of the police efforts to disprove the rumours. There was a hole in the seat of the chair he always sat on where he had picked at the stitching, torn the vinyl, pulled out the yellow spongy stuff inside. And every day he left without being told anything except the old mantra: Sorry sir, family only. A family that wasn’t there.

“Why am I still here?”

It was a good question, and one John to which didn't have the answer until that evening when Mycroft finally arrived at 221B Baker to tell him that he’d been to see Sherlock.

“He seems to be doing just fine. Much better than the last time he was sectioned, anyway,” he sipped at his tea.

John looked up sharply. “The last time?”

“Oh, yes. When he was twenty three. It’s always a bad thing when no one listens to him.” Mycroft smiled fondly. “You’ve probably noticed that. Our parents were not exactly the sympathetic type; he did try back then to reach out, but they didn’t want to admit to a son with mental problems. He went missing, we didn’t hear from him for weeks and then…then we got a call that he’d been found.” Mycroft’s voice wavered, ever so slightly. “Wandering around down by the Thames, high on something or other, threatening to kill himself, us, anyone he could get his hands on. He would probably have done it too, if he’d had the chance.”

Mycroft closed his eyes at the memory of his baby brother, the little boy he’d sat on his lap and read to and took to the park for a go on the swings, dirty, crying, and dazed from the assault of the four policemen it took to hold him down, his face pressed into the wet pavement. He’d screamed for Mycroft, pleading, a shattering howl that seemed interminable. Mycroft had turned away when he was finally manhandled into the back of the ambulance, unconscious from a surreptitious injection that took far too long to kick in.

“I was the only one from the family who visited him. They kept him in that time for four weeks. When he was released, it was never discussed.” Mycroft stood, folding his coat over his arm, keeping all the old fear and anger down, his features neutral. “It’s probably a good thing he stays where he is, for now, John. For every ounce of genius that my brother is, he still does need help. He may not have been the one strapping bombs to those people, but the fact that the police clearly think he is capable is…” He paused, trying to find a subtle way to put it. “Quite telling.”

“So that’s the solution, is it? Just ignore it and it will go away? Pull a few strings, give him a few injections?” he was vaguely aware he was on his feet, advancing on the taller man who was taking a step back towards the door. “How is pumping him full of mood stabilizers any different from a needle full of whatever was that put him there the first time? You’re his family. You can get him out.”

Frustration tightened every muscle in his frame; his fists clenched so hard he could feel his short nails digging crescents into his palm. He fought to keep control, slowed his breathing. He almost lost it at the look of pity on Mycroft’s face.

“It’s happened before, John. And I, of all people, understand what you are feeling right now after all I’ve fought on Sherlock’s behalf more times than I can remember. Maybe this is it.” He looked genuinely sad. “It will more than likely happen again. I... We have been through this many times. As a doctor, I think you will agree he’s safe where he is right now.”

“But it’s not him!” John roared. “Whatever it is they’ve given him, it’s changed him. He’s not the same!”
Mycroft’s face crumpled as though what he was about to say was causing him physical pain.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”
Then he had left. John had punched the wall. He needed a new plan.

What did Sherlock always say, hide in plain sight? And where better to hide a doctor than a hospital? He did have a white coat; ironic then that the man in it would be coming to take Sherlock home, not away.

He’d had to wait until a new duty nurse started her shift, one he was fairly sure he hadn’t seen before, and more importantly, she'd never seen him. He’d procured a briefcase and a clipboard for the papers he’d arranged, not entirely illegally, and had affected a harried air, his speech at the ready; the family has sent me, I don’t have time for this. She had taken one glance at the papers, smiled at him, buzzed him through the security door and gone back to her computer screen.

He slipped almost unnoticed into Sherlock’s room. He’d encountered another nurse in the corridor, but he had put his head down and looked at the paperwork in his hand. She hadn’t looked twice either.

Sherlock smiled when he saw him, a huge toothy grin that really did look like it didn’t belong on that face. He had seen the annoyingly frequent knowing smirk, and sometimes an indulgent tug at the corners of his lips, but John had never a smile like this. Coupled with the dark halo of hair that was now falling into his eyes, it made him look absurdly young.

“John!” God, he could be loud.

“Shut up, you idiot!” he hissed.

It had taken him a few seconds to remove the IV from Sherlock’s hand with sure, practiced movements. Sherlock was watching him the whole time, perplexed. John shook his head, searched the blank eyes, found himself wishing that the knowing smirk would materialize from the empty features.

“I’m here in a doctor’s coat, I’m removing your IV and in that case I have some of your clothes; they’re not your regular clothes though because you’d stand out like a sore thumb. I’m asking you to be very quiet and in a minute I’m going to get you dressed and put you in that wheelchair. Now, what does that all add up to?”

Sherlock’s face softened. “You’re taking me home…” His long fingers closed around John’s hand where he was steadying it and squeezed, ever so slightly.

“There you go,” John had grinned. It wasn’t much of a leap, but he’d taken it and John thought that was a very good sign. He put a cotton pad over the back of the needle mark and secured it with tape.

“And I guess, not entirely legally.”

“You would guess correctly.” John reached for the case.

When he’d raided Sherlock’s wardrobe, he’d found rows of neatly ordered shirts and suits, and had panicked because really, a drugged man in Armani in a wheelchair was going to make them look a bit conspicuous. Blend in was the mantra and when his hand came upon an old pair of jeans tucked away, he’d heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Did you bring my coat?” Sherlock asked in all seriousness, lifting his feet so John could slip the trousers over them. ”I don’t go anywhere without my coat.”

“How was I supposed to smuggle that thing in? Just be glad I remembered your underpants and be quiet.” He motioned for Sherlock to stand, which he managed by balancing himself with a hand to John’s shoulder. He had reached for the left, then stopped himself and stumbling a little, grabbed the right. John pulled up the jeans that had a well-worn softness about them, and zipped them up, dismayed to find they hung off him.

“You….should have brought a belt,” Sherlock nodded at the logic of it all.
"And you should eat a sandwich once in a while. Well, never mind now. We’re not going far.” He pulled off his coat and his own sweater, the longest he owned and tugged it over Sherlock’s head. It was still a bit short, but sitting in the wheelchair, with the sleeves rolled up, Sherlock looked almost, well, normal. Distressingly normal.

He’d wheeled him out straight through the reception area. His heart was not just in his throat but attempting to escape through his mouth. He had the clipboard ready, just in case, but the nurse wasn’t there, so he left the not entirely legal discharge papers on the end of the reception desk and just kept on walking.

Sherlock passed out in the taxi. John had slipped the driver two fifties to just drive them home and forget that they were ever in his cab.

It had been hard bundling six feet of drugged, technically escaped psychiatric patient up the stairs, but John eventually managed it and when they were finally home, he pulled the curtains. He didn’t know why; Mycroft would already know by now.
“I would give anything for a shower,” Sherlock mumbled from the armchair. “I can smell myself.”

John had helped him get undressed then waited while he washed in case he passed out again. When he opened the shower curtain, naked and soaking wet without any hint of embarrassment he was frowning like he was trying to remember something. His eyes followed invisible lines along the floor.

“I think I might be a little bit…hungry.” He said it with the air of someone who just realized they weren’t feeling well.

“OK! We’ll get you something to eat, when you’ve got dressed!” John’s voice sounded too high and animated to his own ears, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.  He was too busy trying to dry himself.

“I'm so tired, John. My arms, my legs even my head." The hopeless look that Sherlock raised to him made John reach out and put a reassuring hand on a lean shoulder. He could feel frustration thrumming underneath his fingertips. "I can't think!"
And there was the crux of John's dilemma; the reason he was doing this. That brain, deprived of the crackle of synapses and the ability to make quick fire associations, would atrophy and die if it continued to be kept under the lock and key of the drugs still coursing through his system. John could not live with himself if that happened.
He took the towel and dried Sherlock off, and was gently helping him into a clean pair of pyjamas when he went down.

“Whoah, Jesus, careful!” John staggered but caught him, jamming himself under Sherlock’s arm and half carrying him to his bedroom. He checked Sherlock’s pulse and pupils.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Better. Still feel a bit dizzy. And still a bit hungry.”
He’d had to tell Mrs. Hudson of his plan, of course. She’d been oddly enthusiastic and now he saw she’d left some soup and a plate of sandwiches wrapped in cling film in the fridge.  He silently blessed her and loaded a tray. Sherlock had been ravenous; John watched as he ate more than he’d probably eaten in weeks put together. John nibbled halfheartedly at his own food, that sick feeling he’d had since all this started had killed his appetite. It was too quiet now and it was disconcerting.
Moving in with Sherlock had made him feel more alive than anything else since the war and John had grasped selfishly at the lifeline. Sherlock didn't do mundane or normal any better than John did sedentary and routine.  And Sherlock really was mad as a fucking hatter, framed in a Baker Street window, coat flying, violin howling, surrounded by body parts but that was what defined him. That was why, despite frequent urges to punch him out, to just up and leave the tea party, John stayed and loved him like the annoying little brother he never had. How could he not?

If he allowed this to continue, if he did nothing to take away that blank look that was the face Sherlock now turned to the world, he would feel like he'd murdered him as surely as if he'd pulled out that service revolver, put it to his head and pulled the trigger.
Now the usually bright eyes that always held the promise of trouble, of a breathless chase across London’s rooftops, of the game, simply stared at him. They went no further, they didn't look into him like they usually did, but stopped at the fleshy barrier of his face. They didn't pick up on the lack of sleep from nerves or the sick bile rising at the panic he was feeling or the fact that right now, John needed Sherlock to be Sherlock. He wanted him to be rude and haughty and just downright obnoxious, because with that came the knowing smiles that only John understood, the pride he felt when Sherlock bent his dark head to his own to ask his opinion, the sheer exhilaration of it all.

Sherlock sat back on his pillow with a belch when he’d finished eating, breadcrumbs scattered across his pyjama top. He fell asleep soon after, sleeping the sleep of the drugged. John wondered when eating and sleeping had become symptoms to be concerned about. He sat for a long time watching him.

Mycroft arrived that evening. John was waiting.

“He’s sleeping now, you can’t see him,” he snapped, as soon as Mycroft came across the threshold. Rooms always seemed smaller when Mycroft was in them; it was a trait shared by both the Holmes brothers. This time, however, he had to compete with John, who stood, every muscle tensed, in front of the fireplace, his jaw clenched so hard, Mycroft wondered if he’d snap a tendon.

“That’s fine, Doctor Watson. I have seen him like this before. I have no wish to reacquaint myself with… that side of him. No, I brought you these. I thought they’d be useful.” He took a small pharmacist’s bottle from his waistcoat pocket and carefully placed it on the table between them. Straightening, he seemed to want to clean his fingers where they had come into contact with the plastic. A look of disgust crossed his sharp features briefly. “I understand you took it upon yourself to liberate him; I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

“No, not really,” John almost laughed at the ludicrous notion that he’d had any idea what he was doing since the moment he walked into that lab at Bart’s. “I know what I’m not doing though. I’m not just sitting around while they...”

Mycroft laughed. “Come now, John. Do you really think that you would just be able to walk into a psychiatric ward and abscond with one of the patients and no one would bat so much as an eyelid? On the contrary, they had prior warning of your arrival."

“So, that was your idea of helping him? Pulling a few strings and letting someone else do the work?” That’s what you always do, you smug bastard, he thought, disgusted. He turned his back on the elder Holmes, studying the knife marks in the mantelpiece.

“A man of my position cannot abuse…”

“Oh, bollocks!” John snarled. “You told me that when he was taken away in the ambulance that first time, not a single member of your family visited him. Now, I realize that in whatever it is that passes for ordinary, everyday life, he isn’t exactly normal, but even for you lot, that’s pretty poor treatment.”

“Have you any idea…” he tried again, but John had crossed the room and was so close he could hear him breathing.

“Do you think he can live like this? I had to dry him off when he got out of the fucking shower, for Christ’s sake. ”

“Like I said before, maybe it’s for the best.”

“He’s your brother!”

Mycroft leaned away slightly from the intrusion on his personal space. “You really can be quite an intense young man, John. Yes, he is my brother, and as such, I am duty bound to make sure he is taken care of. What does that make you?”

“I’m his friend.”

More like a brother. And he knew Sherlock loved him, in his own way. After being second to his sister before joining an army full of men and women, a cohesive mass, ranks of the same colours, Sherlock made him feel like he stood out. He had more than enough selfish reasons. He was the one who was duty bound.

“Yes, so you’ve said.” Mycroft smiled that condescending smile of his. “I find your confidence in him… touching.”
John clenched his fists. He seemed to do that a lot around Mycroft. A lot was made about his superior social skills and ability to function on an everyday level compared to his little brother but John would take Sherlock’s sulking dramatics over that knowing smirk any day.

Mycroft motioned to the pill bottle “His medication. Twice a day, doctor, if you don’t mind. I’m leaving him in your capable hands; please don’t disappoint me. I expect the highest standard of care."

As he turned to leave, John finally allowed the rage that had been simmering since that day at the pool to overcome him. He threw himself at the taller man, pushing him back painfully against the doorframe, his forearm pressed up against an elegant throat, using his shorter height to advantage.

"Is that right?” he hissed, breathing hard through his nose. "Is that because you're concerned? Is that why you always turn away from him?” he pushed harder. Mycroft made an odd gurgling sound.”You and your bloody family; where are you when he really needs you, eh?"

Mycroft's voice was understandably strangled. “I’ve always tried to be there for him!”

“No, you haven’t. You palm him off onto other people, make him their problem. Well, I’m telling you now, he’s not a problem. Not for me."
Mycroft was turning an unholy shade of puce. He scrabbled at John’s sleeves with immaculate nails.

"Let me go, or I'll take him back to the hospital with me."
John's nostrils flared and for a split second he wanted nothing more than to jab an elbow into that windpipe and just finish him off. But Mycroft didn’t make empty threats so he stood down, tugging at his shirt to straighten it. Mycroft gasped loudly and tried to catch his breath.

“Violence is such an unsophisticated response, John.” He pulled at his tie, loosening it ever so slightly. “Please give Sherlock my regards.” He turned to leave.

"Have you any idea what taking those pills will do to him?” John was regaining control, his voice soft, his eyes boring holes into the older man’s back. “It’s ironic, isn’t it, that you spend years trying to get him off mind altering drugs, but they're okay if they come in a little orange bottle?"

"I just want the best for him.” He didn’t turn around. “I will be watching.”  And he left.

“I heard voices.” John didn’t hear Sherlock come up behind him and he jumped.

“It was... No one.”

“What’s this?” He picked up the container of pills from the table.

“It’s…. well, it’s nothing.” John held his hand out for the bottle. “Give it to me.”

"No one? Nothing?” Sherlock yawned, absently reading the label. “It must have been Mycroft. There are nail marks on your palm. You only do that around my insufferable twat of a brother. You must have threatened him too; one of your sleeves is pushed up."

John snatched the pills from Sherlock’s grasp and almost grinned at the look of surprise he elicited. “How do you feel?”
The look turned to suspicion.

“I’m your doctor, it’s a routine question.”

“I feel fine, John; much better now I’ve had a sleep.” He seemed sincere, and smiled gently. John was relieved to see it in no way resembled the doped up grin of the last few days. “That drug seems to have worked its way through my system; my mind feels…free.”
John almost threw himself at the other man, bear hugging him hard. Sherlock went completely rigid under his touch and stood perfectly still until John let go but even that made him ridiculously happy.

“Why are you attempting to crack my ribs?"

"Well, it's you..." he was breathless almost. Sherlock turned his head and narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, it most certainly is me. Not so sure about you though."

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Is there any tea going?" he turned and headed back into his bedroom, emerging with his phone and setting himself up on the couch, texting away before he’d even sat down. John watched him with a dopey grin of his own on his face, at the long body sprawled, hair wild, and one shoulder making an escape from his robe.

It was that scene that made up his mind. He went to the bathroom and opened the bottle, tipping its contents into the bowl of the toilet. He didn’t think twice when he flushed. When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was yelling obscenities at the television. John threw himself down next to him

“Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t say I don’t do anything for you.”

“On the contrary, I am more than grateful for everything you do.”
They sat in companiable silence for a little while.

“Did you hurt him?” Sherlock asked.
John shook his head. He had a feeling that Mycroft would have something to say when he found out Sherlock was getting back to his old self but he could deal with that.

“Pity,” Sherlock turned back to the television. “That could have been advantageous for both of us. Think it through next time.”
For the first time what felt like an age, John laughed.

“There won’t be a next time, you insufferable sod.”