Chapter Text
Mycroft didn't bother to call, he just picked his brother up near the middle of nowhere.
Sherlock fought entering the helicopter, but the air of superiority in Mycroft's face had been replaced by true concern. Of course the two looked the same, but reading his petulant brother's moods had become a sixth sense of Sherlock's.
Sherlock stepped out of the cab, deftly entering the familiar building. His brain was quiet, the kind of quiet he was trying to achieve with the drugs. Mycroft must have arranged something with the staff, because he didn't have a single employee question him. He'd never had reason to go to this part of the hospital, but he still knew where it was. The halls got quieter the further he got from the heart of the action. He passed a room and heard the drum of a defibrillator, and a few rooms later he heard what sounded like a child laughing. His chest constricted at the thought of a small child, visiting a parent in this state. Could they even understand why they were here? Probably not, especially if no one wanted to tell them. Sherlock loathed how deeply he could relate to that small child in that moment.
Sherlock stopped in front of the door that Mycroft had said was the correct one. This was going to be very difficult.
Sherlock's footsteps were the loudest thing in the room by far. John was supposed to be asleep, and so Sherlock paused, listening for the even breathing that was distinctly John Watson's. Surprisingly, he recognised it instantly. That was the moment that his heart caved in, realising that this was actually happening. Behind that flimsy curtain of an abhorrent shade of green lay the man that had changed everything.
Sherlock had spent many nights thinking about how easily they could have never met, playing every scenario like a waking nightmare. Every single variable in his life, if just slightly different, could have meant he would spend the rest of his life alone. But also, in a deep, dark, sappy part of his heart that he would deny having if anyone ever asked, Sherlock always felt like they were fated to meet. Although as soon as he acknowledged that he wanted to physically hit his head against a wall to get that idiocy out of his head. Speaking of heads...
Sherlock shook himself out of the daze, and forced fresh air into his lungs. But there was none. This air had been so recycled it was as close to dead as the people struggling to breathe it. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to see John like this. Not his John. His military John, his doctor John, his flatmate John, his best friend John.
Sherlock placed a hand on the sheet, sliding away the last thing that could separate the detective and his blogger.
John slept soundly, or least appeared to. It could easily have been the drugs, but his face seemed more at peace than an intoxicated one would. Sherlock didn't want to wake him up. All he wanted was to run, far away and never look back.
John stirred. Sherlock quickly hid behind the curtain, his heart beating inappropriately fast. He wasn't at all prepared for this, what was he going to say? What was John going to say? Mycroft had just told him what ward he was in, but Sherlock had no idea how serious it was? Would John even-
"Hello? I heard someone, don't try and hide." Sherlock tucked his lips into mouth, breathing as quietly as he could, squeezing his eyes shut, sealing the tears inside. "God dammit come out here, I'm not crazy! Is this some kind of test? You're the crazy ones, keeping me up in here. Come out!" John's voice was strong, but Sherlock could hear the quiver in his voice.
"John?" Sherlock made himself speak before he lost all confidence.
There was a long silence, but John's heart monitor had begun beeping faster. "This is cruel. Why would you do this? Sherlock Holmes is dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead!" He was shouting now. No quiver, nothing but pure rage.
Sherlock came out from around the curtain, a tear welling up in his right eye. "No, John I'm not."
John stared for a very long time. All the rage fell off his face. All emotion fell off his face. He just stared, a man that had been hollowed out and injected with paranoia and depression. "Who are you?"
"You know who I am, John."
"I know who you're supposed to be, but who you're supposed to be is dead. So I'll ask you again, who are you?"
"John. This is real. I'm really here."
John started shaking his head vigorously, and sniffed through his nose violently. "No, no, you're not. Why doesn't anyone believe that you're dead?! Let me go! Sherlock is dead! Mycroft will find me, and you're all going to pay for what you've done."
Mycroft had said that he was still out of it, but in truth he hadn't left his captors. This would lead to even worse PTSD, which will probably lead to insufficient sleep, emotional instability, maybe even dysphoria. War PTSD and harsh detention conditions can leave different effects on the mind, and it seemed that John specifically was on the path of extreme mental instability. They had put him in the psych ward for a reason, and Sherlock was going to do whatever he could to get him out.
"John. Mycroft did find you, you're safe now, you're in the hospital."
John couldn't speak, he just looked so angry and confused. Most of his physical recovery was done, but he still had an IV in, so Sherlock hoped that would keep him from having a violent outburst. But it would not surprise anyone in the least if John Watson was the type to tear the IV out of his arm.
John seemed incapable of speech. He couldn't believe any of this. All he wanted was to lay back down and sleep until this went away.
"John?"
"Sherlock, is that really you?"
"Yes, John. I'm alive."
"No you're not."
"Yes, I am. I have been alive this whole time."
"No. I must be dead. Did they finally kill me?"
"No, John. You're alive. You're in the hospital." Tears were leaking out of Sherlock's eyes. How could he have let this happen?
"Sherlock? Why did you leave?"
"I'm so sorry, John. If I hadn't faked my death you and Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade would -"
"Why did you let them take me?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to be silent. "No, you're not real. I made you up in my head. This is probably a coping mechanism. My subconscious has created you, to communicate what my conscious cannot understand. You're just a ghost."
"John..." Sherlock wiped the moisture from his face. He didn't know what to do.
"I'm crazy. They finally broke me, didn't they? They won't believe me, Sherlock, they won't believe me that you're dead. I try to tell them, but every day they come in and try a new tactic. Why didn't someone come save me?"
"Someone did save you, John. Mycroft. You're in the hospital."
"Really?" And for seemingly the first time, John looked around the room. The number of hours he had spent in a hospital room came back to him, and he looked down sadly. "Am I really out of there?"
"Yes, John."
"Well, this subconscious mirage thing sure does the trick, doesn't it?" He looked up at Sherlock with tears in his eyes. "All this time I've been making sense. All this time I've been telling the truth, but somehow they broke me."
"If you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind."