A Study in Madness: Prologue
Title: A Study in Madness
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock, John, mentions of Lestrade
Warning(s): old psychiatric practice references, AU story, pre-established romantic relationship between Sherlock and John
Notes: Prologue to a story that will span many, many chapters
Summary: Sherlock is called in by Lestrade to investigate some strange happenings at the burned-down Rutledge Asylum, when he and John get transported into the world of American McGee's Wonderland, with a few special treats in store from the detective's past.Disclaimer: I do not own American McGee's Alice, nor do I own BBC Sherlock. Unfortunately. Idea inspired by this animation on deviantART. Collaboration fic via email with the AMAZING TheLetterVII, who is quite possibly the best John RPer on the face of the earth.
Word Count: 4,627 in this section
Once upon a time, two good men who lived in London: one tall, and one of average height. They earned their living solving crimes.
One day, a detective friend of theirs came to the taller one and said in a tone of worry, "Burnt down it did, last night, the Rutledge Asylum. Would you come and take a look? The strangest things have happened within the walls that remain. Those who have survived reported a girl in a blue dress roaming the halls who doesn't match any of the current patient
records."
Piqued by the notion of a phantom, the man headed to the asylum. They arrived at the charred building, only to be greeted by an authority of the institution, who claimed to have knowledge of the mysterious girl in question, who apparently went by the name of Alice Liddell.
"Ah!" Exclaimed the tall man with silver-grey eyes, his tone of sarcasm and disbelief evident, "And what of Wonderland? Is there a connection to that?" To which the authority replied in scorn, "Fairytale it is and fairytale it shall remain. There is no such thing as Wonderland, and no such girl as Alice Liddell anymore, for she died many decades ago."
The three men decided to split up anyway and cover as much ground in the ruins of the building as possible. The taller of the two crime-solvers was a man of strong principles and little fear, so he didn't mind being on his own; in fact, he usually did work alone except for recently thanks to the addition of his new (and shorter) blue-eyed companion. Before long, strange noises could be heard, like children's laughter and the crackling of roaring fire.
Then there appeared a cat, a myriad of bones and sickness with the most hideous grin fathomable, who stalked towards the lanky man and purred, "So it shall be Sherlock Holmes, the savior of a girl's broken mind. Even her spirit may never rest in peace, if one is to let the horrors of her past run free. Help her, Sherlock Holmes, and do bring your precious friends too. A journey into Wonderland is not as delightful as it seems, and delightful it will never be. You may just find that you don't want to leave."
And with that, the cat vanished, leaving Sherlock alone in the burned hallway again. He looked around at the peeling walls, damaged by the fire, and took out his phone to text his companion. He would need his assistance to properly investigate (if only because it was a comfort to him at this point), but the detective fully intended to keep the ghostly and slightly unnerving encounter to himself. There was no need to worry the former army doctor over something that could have simply been a result of asbestos exposure from the crumbling, ancient walls. He sends off the text, a small smile on his lips at the old joke in the wording of his message and it's follow-up ones:
----Text sent to: John Watson----
Remains of Lockup Ward. Come at once if convenient.
-SH
----Text sent to: John Watson----
If inconvenient, come anyway.
-SH
----Text sent to: John Watson----
Could be dangerous.
-SH
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The soft yellowish umbers of the malfunctioning street light speckled the flat as the growing darkness melted across the cluttered walls and floor. Two hours ago, the sun set two hours ago and he’s been roaming around the flat aimlessly ever since he grudgingly parted ways with Sherlock, after the close of their earlier case. The detective had strutted off (in the wrong direction), coat dramatically billowing behind him as he affably placated John (when the good doctor pointed out he was headed in the wrong direction), telling him he’d be right after him, he just had to check on something real quick. John frowned, set his lips in a rigid line, and eyed Sherlock sharply as the man offered up one of his fleeting yet genuine smiles telling the doctor to pick them up some take-away before he ventured back to 221 B because he was sure to be hungry later. John, of course, reluctantly conceded.
The take-away had become a constant reminder of Sherlock’s absence, growing colder with each passing minute. The flat crawled with an eerie odd quiet. The rooms themselves seemed alive and weary, apparently missing the brilliant detective too. John felt a bit restless, his body and mind itching to do something. Anything. Sherlock still hadn’t made it back yet and John allowed himself to assume the wiry detective got word from Lestrade about a new case. Odd though. He hadn’t received a text from the taller man informing him of anything.
They’d only just wrapped up the other case earlier today, pretty gruesome one, but John had been quite ready to start another almost immediately. Work at the clinic had been slow for the past week and a half and he missed (and craved) the rush of adrenalin that consumed him when he was on an intense case with Sherlock.
There’s a slight chill without the sun’s warm rays heating the space of the kitchen but the cold is the least of his concerns. He’s heard nothing from Sherlock, and that’s not abnormal, but it’d be nice to not be caught in a constant loop of worry. His legs are tired and his knee still hurts from twisting it while on that grisly case. John had dashed off down a corridor opposite than Sherlock so they could head off the blood soaked murderer; he had run into killer first and tackled him, twisting his knee on the way down. The stench of blood was still fresh and clinging to his senses.
The ends of his shower dampened hair tickled his forehead and brushed against his eyebrows, it was irritating. His watery reflection happily forsakes him, offering him no hope in fixing his hair only a horribly distorted view of his misshapen jumper. It was one of his older ones that he often used to keep the worn shoulder of his chair warm. When the seat was comfy enough and he felt a chill crawl down his spine he would throw it over his own head. The whistling of the kettle disturbs his thoughts and he blinks removing the kettle from the heat but doesn’t bother to finish making the tea, instead he brushes stray hair off of his forehead. It was just a little long for his liking; he was past due for a cut. He’d get one soon, the end of the week he told himself.
John feels his phone vibrate before he hears the beep indicating he’s received a text. Relief floods his system, relief he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for and he feels his heartbeat slow down. He shoves his hand in his pocket fishing out his phone, leaving his unmade tea forgotten as he pulls up the text he knows is from Sherlock (Better be from Sherlock). His lips move as he reads and he frowns a bit. “Lock up ward? What on Earth, Sherlock?” What had the man gotten himself into now? John was halfway out of the kitchen when his phone vibrated again and then once more. The texts are sentimental to John and make him smile ridiculously as he moves through the flat gathering some proper shoes and his coat. Sherlock and danger, it was the perfect combination. The kind he lived for.
----Text sent to: Sherlock Holmes----
On my way.
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Sherlock Holmes has never been a patient man, so it's no wonder he gets restless as he waits for John to arrive. He's sure that his companion will be able to figure out where he is based on the small bit of information he gave. Lockup wards are in Asylums. While that is an awfully broad base of locations, it's obvious he's in London; he always makes sure to bring John along or at least tell him if he went anywhere further. So it has to be an asylum in London. There's only one place fitting that criteria that would have any interest to the detective at the moment: Rutledge Asylum. The remains of it, anyway. It has been in the news all day, the story of the building burning down played up and splayed over televisions and newspapers as a cautionary tale to old wiring or sloppy work or something along those lines. Sherlock knows that John is intelligent enough to make the deductions necessary to find him. Or if worst comes to worst, he can always ask Lestrade, but that ruins the fun.
Sherlock's point in this minimal information exercise is to teach John, in a way, how to start thinking like him. He's already rather intelligent, and he's picking up things fast. It really does help on a case to have another person that is at least thinking somewhat like him, and it makes their relationship a lot simpler if John is frustrated and intimidated by his intellectual prowess less often. He's picked up that much quite easily.
As he waits, he looks around at the walls and decides that the building was probably first erected during early victorian times. Maybe late 1840's, if he had to guess. One of the first in London, no doubt, when the city was in the throws of hysteria scares and sending people, especially women, left and right to be locked up for trivial things. As he gazes down the row of tarnished white doors, now open when they used to be locked up tightly, he imagines the horrid way it must have looked in it's opening days.
Suddenly, he sees the flash of an image, and his imaginings are made real. The white doors are prison cells now, bars thick and menacing. Shackles can be seen inside, rusting as they cling to the walls with blood caked on their cuffs. The walls have padding, but it's thin and worn, and blood and other sinister, disgusting stains are seen on the fabric. Then he smells the stench of rotting flesh, the odor reaching his nose quickly. But a moment later, the hallway is normal again, and he blinks a few times, trying to figure out what happened. The smell is gone too; the vision must have lasted only a few seconds. He figures it must be chemicals in the air, just like with the cat, and he pushes the thought of it away. There's no need to worry about seemingly strange events when there's a perfectly good scientific explanation for them.
"1847." Sherlock murmurs, deciding that was the year this place was built. It fit best with the schematics and architecture. "New facilities and features added in the mid 1960s, updated..." He cast one more glance at the door nearest him and then continued his deductions aloud as always, regardless of whether or not anyone was listening. "1998. Additions of new technology and basic repairs have been ongoing since then."
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John hails a cab, plops himself inside, closes the door, and immediately pulls out his phone. Both of his thumbs are slowly poking at the small device in a way that is very similar to how he stabs his computer keyboard with his pointer fingers. Sherlock had once chuckled and told him it had an archaic appeal, as if he were studying an adorable dinosaur that was acclimating to city life. He got along fine with his keyboard thank-you very much.
Gravity releases the momentary hold it seems to have on him when he thought about Sherlock or started to text the other man when he realizes the cab wasn't moving. Ah yes, directions. The driver was a tolerant sort, waiting patiently and eyeing John in the rear view mirror with an unamused look crookedly stapled to his weather-beaten face. “Uh-” He pauses to scroll through his texts again. Remains of Lockup Ward. Come at once if convenient. That wasn't exactly an address and Sherlock obviously thought him capable enough of deducing his current location. Remains… He heard the driver tap at the wheel and John spared the cabbie an explanation of what the world’s only consulting detective was putting him through. Why did Sherlock insist on making a fool out of him?
“Wait it’ll come to me.” John says, as he holds up his hand and softly curses to himself. Damn Sherlock. “I’m not you, I don’t think like you.” The seats in the cab are stiff and uncomfortable but he presses himself into them anyway and stares out of the window. Texting Sherlock is at the top of his to-do list, to demand to know where he is, but that’s not what the detective wanted. He wanted John to be able to figure this out on his own and John should be able to do this. If Sherlock thought he could… then well, he could. He would. How many remains of lock up wards could there be?
Forty-five minutes and a ton of very informative Google searches later John proudly says, “Rutledge Asylum, please.” The cab driver mumbles to himself speeding off to newly revealed location. Sherlock was sure to be bristling with impatience by now, but the man couldn't have expected John any sooner than this. He hadn’t watched the telly recently, in fact he’d spent the day wrapping up the other case with Sherlock, then sitting around at home forcibly not worrying about the detective and waiting for another case to erupt and catch their attention. Through his thorough Google searching he knew Rutledge was the place to be, as it was the only thing interesting, being burned down and all that.
When they stopped in front of the asylum John all but gasped. Sherlock was inside of there? The insides of that place couldn't be safe. John sighed; he was beginning to believe Sherlock would enter an active volcano if he thought it was pertinent to the case. Money was shoved somewhere at the cabbie, the doctor could only hope the driver had grabbed it as he was no longer looking or caring as he was quickly jogging away to enter the Asylum.
The inside doesn't look as fragile as the outside appeared, but still badly burned and probably still very dangerous. He moves forward cautiously and the ceramic tiles don’t so much break as they crack, splinter, and shatter underfoot. “Sherlock?”
------------------------------------
While one would think Sherlock to be irritated by the length of time it was taking John, he was actually quite pleased. Anyone else would have just texted for more details, but the fact that John isn't arriving promptly and that the detective's phone remains silent is all the information Sherlock needs to know that his doctor is figuring this out for himself. It pleases him to know that John is trying, and he knows for a fact that he'll figure it out in time.
While waiting for his companion to arrive, Sherlock explores the rest of the lockup ward, investigating each room and the bizarre contents. A few stuffed animals of various species, some pictures, countless drawings, marks and stains on the wall from time to time reminiscent of those he saw in his vision of the past (only much less extreme). A few had some things scratched into the walls as well, but just the generic ramblings of broken minds; clearly this was where people went when they had no chance of rehabilitation into society.
Sherlock continues to talk aloud as he looks around the place, but he's stopped short at one point by the sound of crunching tile from the direction of the entrance. It isn't Lestrade; he had left with the asylum director to discuss the details of securing the patients alternate care and any criminal activity that may have caused the fire. Thus, through the very simplistic process of elimination, it must be John. This deduction is corroborated by the sound of the man's voice ringing out through the hollow shell of the building, calling Sherlock's name.
Strangely enough, Sherlock never seems to realize just how apprehensive he is without John by his side now until he hears or sees him again. As if the subtle anxiety of not having the former army doctor within his sight is only acknowledged when he's reminded that he was indeed alone only moments before. When the familiar voice calls out, Sherlock straightens up and pokes his head out of the cell he's currently investigating. "In here, John," he calls back. On any normal day, the call wouldn't have reached the entrance, but given the holes in the walls and the empty, ghost-like state of the structure, the words would carry back to John just fine.
“In where-” John asks only to be disrupted by the steady annoying crunch under his shoes, he casts a gaze downward and across the floor all the tiles aren’t broken, just seems the ones in the entryway are. He steps over the remaining broken pieces continuing towards the sound of Sherlock’s voice. The peeling edges of fire burnt wallpaper hold his attention for a moment or two as he enters the mostly decimated asylum further. According to the online reports the fire had been very bad and by the looks at it they hadn’t exaggerated.
Walls were hollowed out here and there, support beams were scorched and fractured, there are traces of shadow burns where pictures frames once hung, and most of the rooms looked rather skeletal. John gives himself a minute to wonder how many people actually survived fire. His fingers brush against the crumbling wall as he maneuvers himself around rubble. He spots something underneath the wreckage at his feet and he bends down some to wipe away at the thick blanket of ash but it only serves to smear it, as everything is still somewhat damp. It’s a rabbit ear, a stuffed rabbit’s ear. John’s throat tightens at the thought of children being trapped in here and not being able to make it out. He straightens himself up looking ahead, concentration tilting to Sherlock, he needed to find the detective, and he moves carefully forward. John was becoming increasingly frustrated in this black and grey labyrinth; everything was starting to merge into one endless portrait of destruction. This part of Rutledge seemed equally identical and burned as the rest.
After a few wrong turns and hobbling through a gutted wall John finds himself at the source of where thinks Sherlock’s voice had originated. “Sherlock-” he says to an empty cell. Right. John turns instantly spotting the tail of Sherlock’s coat peeking out from the cell diagonal his. “Sherlock, couldn’t you have texted that you were at Rutledge Asylum instead of remains of lockup ward? Bit cryptic that, and anyway it would have saved me some time.” John steps into the cell giving it a cursory glance waiting a beat or two before allowing his eyes to connect with Sherlock’s form. He’d seen him earlier today, but that hadn’t seemed enough, wasn’t enough, and he realized that now. Sherlock was a needed part of him, like an arm, leg, or aorta; he functioned (lived) better when they were together. “I hope this floor holds.”
Sherlock can tell the instant that John steps into the cell, and he turns to face him. When their gazes lock, Sherlock replies to him. "I knew you'd be able to figure it out. More details weren't necessary and would have only served to insult your intelligence, I would think." He follows up the comment with a slight smile, though it probably comes off as more of a smirk. That tends to happen with the detective quite often.
"What do you notice about this cell, John?" Sherlock gestures to the room around him, wondering if the doctor would see as much as he himself saw. He rarely caught everything, but he usually caught the majority of things, more than the casual passerby, in fact. Sherlock often started off things like this, dramatically jumping right in with the opportunity to show off his observation skills.
John huffs out a breath and hums to himself as he looks around the room again. “Not much. This room seems like all the others. Badly burned, not much looks salvageable…” He turns facing the other direction trying to examine the wall closely. “I see some scratches on the wall, not sure if some of these are even words.” He turns again walking back to spot he was originally at and brushes his fingers over his pants and looks up at Sherlock expectantly. “What I’d miss, besides, oh, everything?”
Sherlock's smirk widens slightly. "Had you been here as long as I or had you looked into the other cells more thoroughly, you would notice that this cell in different from the others. Care to guess why, or should I tell you?" Sherlock hardly takes a breath before continuing, cutting John off before he even has a chance to begin speaking. "Of course, you'd rather I just get to the point. Well, this cell is particularly charred. The walls are much darker, and the fire damage is extensively worse. But beyond that, if you look carefully, you can see the remnants of the wall beneath: the wallpaper is much older than that in the other cells in this ward, and of a different pattern completely. By the looks of it, I would say it hasn't been replaced in at the very least twenty years, probably closer to thirty. The patterns of the burns on the walls suggest that this room may have been where the fire originated. This is interesting though, because judging by the state of the items remaining here, it seems that the room hasn't been touched in just as long as the wallpaper."
Sherlock looks up at one of the walls, gesturing to it. "It's also the only patient room in this entire facility with a mirror. And quite a large one at that. Not to mention that it's completely untouched by the fire damage the rest of the room has sustained." He approaches the mirror and runs a hand along the frame, feeling the wood. "Victorian." He looks back to the charred walls. "The wallpaper might be older than I thought. Hard to tell, really, if it's genuine or a reproduction, given the damage..." He touches it a moment and then takes another look at the room, suddenly struck by an observation on the whole, rather than his more precise ones of individual items. His eyes flit from the walls to the mirror to the old brass bed frame no bigger than that for a child. "This was set up to look like a bedroom. Victorian-era. Probably part of some sort of immersion therapy." Back to the mirror. "Some sort of identity problem. Being forced to face herself in the mirror would have been seen as a way of bringing her back to reality. It was all in her head..." His voice begins to trail off as he imagines a young girl locked up in here. His eyes are lit up with curiosity and intrigue, interested to know the sordid story behind this strange and grotesque display of old psychiatric practices. "And yes, her. It's obvious from the colour choices in decoration and the stuffed animals that are still here." His eyes locked on an old stuffed rabbit. "That one appears to be missing an ear."
John listens, mind enrapt, and there are words currently being formulating to praise the detective, but they dissolve in the wake of Sherlock’s voice as he’s thrown by something. It was all in her head… Not a strange revelation, obviously not one of note, not one John will be commenting on either as Sherlock’s just revealed why he said her. Still it had caused his a misstep in his thoughts.
His eyes flick over to the bed frame, lingering a moment then stumbling over the rest of the singed remains where there are bits of pale pastels flecked and peeking through. The detective’s right, the room, the colours, they indicate it’s a girls room. It was just a little strange that the detective had said it was a her before revealing why he’d thought the rooms inhabitant was indeed a girl. John ultimately decides, it’s really rather impressive. He’s staring at Sherlock, with the same blistering intensity he always gives him when he starts in on deducting. “Sherlock, that was, god, amazing.” John’s face lights up with a subtle admiration for his companion and he shifts, moves, easing himself closer to the astoundingly pristine mirror.
If he was perfectly honest with himself he hadn’t even noticed the mirror. Shame really. As it was the only thing in the room that was wholly untouched by tragedy. Maybe that was why he’d overlooked it in the first place; he was too absorbed in the devastation, seeing something so perceptibly normal had registered as just that, something normal. His fingertips trail along the sturdy wooden frame while his thumb brushes against the cool glass, and he’s amazed and confused this thing is still intact. There are questions nibbling at the back of mind, chewing holes through entire pieces of thought. Why was the mirror untouched, why hadn’t it burned? Why this room? “That’s awful.” John says instead, in response to the child being forced to do anything. And maybe, it wasn’t so awful, John wouldn’t know, he’d never dealt with minds so disconnected from reality they needed to be forced to do something to jolt them back. Maybe that was the only solution, but the thought still sat sickly in his stomach. His fingers fall away from the mirror as he tilts his head in Sherlock’s direction his throat painfully contracting once again, and it continued to do so when Sherlock spotted the little stuffed bunny missing an ear. “Found the ear down the hall.”
Sherlock frowns slightly at John's comment. His icy eyes flicker to John, looking slightly confused. "Are you certain it was the same rabbit? Anyone in here during the fire would have died, without a doubt. Not to mention the state of neglect and disuse it was clearly in prior to the incident." He looks back to the mirror, appraising its untarnished appearance. "And what of the mirror? It's practically spotless." He goes over to it now, his mind sidetracked from the rabbit. It obviously is inconsequential compared to the mirror.
The detective's gaze slides to his own reflection, and he looks over the face he's seen his entire life countless times. As his eyes meet with those of his reflection, Sherlock is suddenly struck with an intense headache. He screws his eyes shut in pain, and one hand reaches to press against his forehead while the other braces itself on the glass of the mirror. Almost immediately after he touches the surface, however, a blood-curdling scream fills his ears and his eyes shoot open. He attempts to cover his ears and block out the noise that is worsening the headache, but the hand on the mirror won't move, as if it's stuck to the glass.
Sherlock is struck with an intense fear, something he rarely experiences. He remembers seeing John's astounded and worried expression, and sees the tightly coiled reaction to assist spooling in his muscles. Then there's the barest hint of it being released as his soldier springs into action, and then everything goes black, as if his senses have died like a computer monitor when unplugged. The last thing he remembers is the phantom voice of the hideous cat, purring out one more cryptic phrase: "And so in an asylum is begins, so in an asylum shall it end. Welcome to Wonderland, Sherlock Holmes."