Let The Shadows Win

The World May Be Returning

Sherlock lay in his pit until he assumed the sun had come up, for dinner had long since past and sleep was impossible. Sherlock hadn't slept properly for the entire time he had been in this place, so poorly in fact that in the beginning they were giving him pills so that he had to sleep. He was just so anxious even when the shadows were absent from the pit it was impossible to lay down! Even when Victor assured him he would keep watch, it was impossible to think past the possibility of Mycroft lingering just where he couldn't see him, on the edge of darkness. He knew that it was morning because the pit disappeared, and before he could process just what was going on he was back on the floor, staring up at the white shoes of one of the guards, come to cuff him and take him to breakfast. Sherlock groaned, blinking for a moment and regaining himself as he struggled to his feet. The guard was familiar to him, yet he never got the chance to learn his name. Yet it didn't matter now, since he was leaving knowing this man's name would be of no use of him come his release. How far away was it now? He didn't know, he had lost track. He knew that he should be counting down the days; he knew that he should be excited. However Sherlock felt an overwhelming sense of doom impending down upon him, he felt as though even though the outside world held freedoms he could hardly imagine, he also knew that none would be available to him. He didn't have a job, and of course he knew of no employers who would be willing to hire a man straight out of the penitentiary. He had no friends, no family, and virtually no one to take him in. He was lonely, broke, and had no place to stay. Yes the outside world was better than in here, there was no pit in the outside world, however there was also no guaranteed meals, or guaranteed care. He would be lost, that was for sure, lost without any money and without any guidance whatsoever.
"Holmes, come on then, you know the drill." The guard insisted. Sherlock nodded, needing to pretend that he was sane, needing to remember not to mention the pit he had spent yet another night inside. He needed to look rested, he needed to look relaxed. And despite his drooping eyelids, despite the aching he felt in his muscles and in his soul, he got to his feet and stood against the bars of his cage like an obedient prisoner. He stood very heavily upon his left leg, for his right was still pained from his encounter with John Watson the last time they parted. He had ended up with a knife in his leg, splitting some very important muscles according to the doctors, and even though the healing and physical therapy he still walked with something of a limp. They had never gotten a cane for him; however he knew that the first investment he would buy when he was released from this prison was a nice engraved one, a beautiful cane like from the Victorian era. Besides, there were plenty in the old umbrella stand for him to steal, usually sitting right by the door in his old house. From this stance he got the handcuffs slapped onto his wrists, and with that confirmation of safety the guard opened his cage so as to escort him to breakfast. In the beginning his breakfast had been served to him on a tray, every meal had been in fact. They didn't want him intermingling, they didn't like the idea of him getting loose or getting into someone's head. They called him highly dangerous, they called him manipulative. Sherlock supposed they were worried about his effect on the other prisoners, or more likely their effect on him. He was only seventeen when he had arrived, merely a child compared to the ancient loons who lurked these hallways. Apparently the guards had tried to protect him, to the best of their abilities. Yet now they had given up on him, for they didn't feel the need to protect a man who had now aged to thirty years. They thought him fit for the real world, did they not? What difference then was the penitentiary's cafeteria? Sherlock shuffled through the white walls, the very walls that he had been seeing for all of these long years. He never saw the other patient's living quarters, most likely because he was on the violent ward, and they had been given their own rooms without cages, without locks on the doors. The staff most likely didn't want Sherlock to see what he was missing by having a criminal record. And so he was marched down the bleak hallways, not a window nor a picture to liven things up. He felt as if this hallway stretched for miles, for he was always exhausted by the time he reached the end. His guard held tightly to his wrists as they marched, and finally the door to the cafeteria loomed into view. It was something of prison style, from what Sherlock knew to be prison style at least. It was a line, in which you get a tray and let the cooks heap whatever food had been prepared onto your plate. It was loaded with all sorts of obscenities, lumpy and colorless pieces of mystery meat, globs of green vegetables that had no distinguishing features, and mashed potatoes that dripped in an almost liquid state when you scooped it. Yet today was breakfast, and so it was watery oatmeal and runny eggs, as it was most every day around here. Sherlock waiting in line with the rest of the prisoners, all dressed in their white clothes as if any sort of color would be alarming and terrifying. He held his tray, standing tall and proud behind some mumbling old woman while he looked about the room once more. There were long tables, not unlike the ones his high school had all those years ago, lining every square inch of the place. There were two guards on every door, armed with tasers and nightsticks so as to make sure nothing got out of hand. their main concern was always a riot, or at least Sherlock could only assume it was. Those weapons were good against one or two rouge prisoners, yet if the entirety of the loony bin went up in rebellion those little sticks would be useless against their rage. All of the guards were watching Sherlock, all at the same time. He knew this, because he could feel their eyes. They watched him because they were looking for any signs to keep him, they were watching him because they wanted him to be crazy, they wanted him to show signs of breaking down. The doctors wanted to make their patients normal while the guards wanted to make their patients worse than ever. That was why they ignored their yells in the night, that was why they lead them down the hallways when there was nowhere to run. It was because they liked the control, they liked the dominance of being sane. They didn't like the idea of Sherlock leaving for the real world, simply because it meant one less person for them to be psychologically superior. That was why they were watching Sherlock. When he got his food he went to sit at the end of one of the long tables, always picking based on which table was the most crowded. He always aspired to be as far away from the other patients as possibly, just to be sure he didn't have to bother with their raving ramblings. Sherlock had made the mistake of trying to make friends when he had first gotten the chance to mingle with the others, and he had found himself trapped in a never ending mumbling conversation, one that made no sense, and was about nothing at all. Even those who had been his age at the time, the younger boys who were locked up on all sorts of charges, they never said anything interesting either. And they were nothing, absolutely nothing compared to John. Sherlock had been worried when he first arrived that he would be attracted to someone in the hospital, that he would lose his dedication and commitment to John Watson. Yet the moment never came, for none of these boys here stood a chance against Sherlock's high standards of eligible bachelors. For starters he appreciated it when they were sane, and secondly he liked it when they were beautiful. Most all of these boys struck out on both counts, and so Sherlock was helpless to do anything but sit alone once more. And that was no bother to him, not at all. He could try to enjoy his food alone at the table, for it was better than suffering alone in the pit. Even now he could feel the pain of the scratches that had long since healed. Even now he could remember the lurking figures that had taunted him until he tried to close his eyes. He could even remember Victor's voice, whispering to him last night about what freedom might be like. That boy's words always soothed him enough to let him fall asleep, for Victor was the only part of Sherlock's brain that thought positively. He always looked at the bright side of things; he was always just so cheerful. Sherlock suspected that was because Victor faced no romantic competition down in the pit, down in the penitentiary. He had always hated John, and now that he was sensing some hostilities between the two love birds he was gaining more and more motivation to smile. Yet his optimism was in a way refreshing, for sometimes Sherlock forgot to look at the bright side, however far off in the shadows it was hidden. Victor liked to find it, he liked to remind Sherlock that there was something to look forward to, and this was always enough to allow Sherlock to fall asleep. With thoughts of hope, with thoughts of a new beginning, all while being trapped in the end of the past. Sherlock was escorted down the hallway once more after he was finished his breakfast, yet this morning he was marched past his cage. It was an even longer walk now that they had overshot his usual destination, and as they continued down the miles and miles of white, stark hallway he was beginning to see a change. There were doors, offices almost, and suddenly carpeting. Sherlock limped over the carpet in something of appreciation, for he had not felt such a soft thing for so long, especially now in his prison sneakers that he had been assigned. There were no shoelaces on these horrible things, merely Velcro. He suspected this was because people could hang themselves with shoelaces, while Velcro was only a psychological method of torture. Sherlock hated the looks around here, the terrible white jumpsuits and the ugly sneakers. He missed his wardrobe most of all, he missed the rows upon rows of button down shirts he used to own, and the black slacks that he kept folded in his top drawer. He missed his jackets, and his long dramatic trench coat that always made him look much taller and much more foreboding. Such a coat was appropriate for such a man, a murderer. The guard stopped at the office that he did not recognize, an office that seemed to be the most decorated thing in the whole of the penitentiary. Sherlock was put in the waiting room, for the man he was supposed to meet was obviously important enough to make his guests wait. In the waiting room was a picture of a beach, a very grain photograph that was probably hanging there much longer than the picture's shelf life; however it was very refreshing to see a scene of relaxation. It was very nice to see a color other than white, and to see a place that might actually be available to him come next week. It was the first picture he had seen in thirteen years, and yet the guard still seemed to think it odd that Sherlock stood up from his couch and went over to examine it. He had never been to the beach, yet he did know the touch of sand. It was a very distant memory, and not a pleasant one when it had been made. From elementary school, in the turtle shaped sandbox where he liked to spend his recess. He liked the sandbox because no one else did. He liked to sit in it and make towers in the disgusting, waterlogged bacteria infected sand because everyone else stayed away. The sandbox smelled terrible, and every time Sherlock would get up from making his magnificent towers and castles he would always be scolded by his teachers for sitting in it. Yet it was the only spot on the playground where he could be alone, and that was what motivated him to stay. What a terrible memory that was, how depressing it was to know the lengths which Sherlock had been so willing to go to as per his brother's instructions. Sherlock never knew then, all those years ago, that perhaps on that very same playground was John Watson. Undoubtedly he had been there, for they were in the same grade. One of the popular boys perhaps, those who could throw the ball really hard during dodgeball, or run the fastest laps around the gym for warmup, not someone Sherlock would want to hang around in those days. What a chance meeting their introduction had been! All of those years ago, and yet it felt like so much longer than merely thirteen years. It felt like an eternity when Sherlock had been able to walk down his steps to great the stranger at the door, when he was able to give that fool a ride in the Holmes family car to his broken down wreck of a thing sitting on the side of the road. John's car had broken down that day, and it was the seclusion of the Holmes household that had made it the only possible source of rescue. And that day, Sherlock had hated him. What a funny thought that was, he could not stand that boy's presence in his car! That boy he always insisted on having a conversation, and who scoffed at Sherlock's classical music. Oh his music, he missed that very much as well.
"William Holmes?" asked a very professional looking man at the door of the office. Sherlock looked over to see the man, an aging man with a shining bald spot and a very loose fitting suit. He looked on the cusp of being professional, however his suit betrayed him, making it almost hard to take him seriously. Did he not know a good tailor around town?
"Yes." Sherlock agreed rather reluctantly, knowing that the man could undoubtedly distinguish who his patient was merely by the way of dress. The guard looked nothing like a patient, simply because of the uniform and the light in his eyes.
"You may come in." the Doctor instructed, stepping aside so that Sherlock could shuffle inside. His hands were still bound by the handcuffs, and he knew enough these days not to hope for them to come off. Everyone always seemed so happy to shackle him up; no one could sit in his presence if they knew that he couldn't very easily kill them. It was odd though; that they still chained him up despite his being released in a couple of days. Surely they needed to trust him just a little bit for that to happen? Sherlock stepped into the office and took a seat next to the desk, in a very comfortable chair with elegant wooden armrests that his handcuffs would not permit him to enjoy. He could rest one arm, yet the other would have to hang lamely by. The office was cluttered yet in an organized way, with filing cabinets lining the walls and organizers filled with sticky notes of all sorts of obnoxious colors. There was a newton's cradle sitting on the desk, stilled at this moment, and a framed oil painting of a very abstract representation of a human brain. It was a rather interesting thing to look at, purely because Sherlock suspected his very brain to look exactly like that poor painting, so deformed, yet still able enough to pass off as normal.
"William, I'm Doctor Franklin, the supervisor of this penitentiary." The man introduced, holding out a hand to shake which Sherlock did so reluctantly.
"I prefer Sherlock." He murmured.
"Your middle name?" the man clarified, sitting down at his desk and not elaborating on how he knew of Sherlock's full name. Undoubtedly there was a file sitting among this mess of a desk, somewhere.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"Well then, Sherlock it is. It matters now, since you'll be out of my hospital in three days' time." the man said with a cheerful little laugh, as if he was ever so happy to get rid of him. A success story, that was what Sherlock's case would turn out for him. He was just ever so happy to have some sort of bragging rights, of being able to take one of society's most heinous killers and supposedly turn them back into a citizen. Oh if only he had actually done so. If only his system hadn't been so easily fooled.
"That's what I've been told." Sherlock agreed quietly.
"Well that's what I'm here to talk to you about, Sherlock, for I'm sure living a life on the outside of these walls is a very foreign concept to you. You've never lived by yourself?" Doctor Franklin presumed.
"I did for a while, after I killed my brother." Sherlock admitted quietly. The doctor tensed, yet reminded himself to relax for a moment and nodded rather stiffly.
"Yes well, besides that. You've never needed to get a job; you've never needed to handle finances. That's what I'm here to talk to you about today." Doctor Franklin said with a grin. Sherlock nodded quietly, only half listening just as soon as he heard the word 'job'. It reminded him of his high school classes, in which they would try to coach everyone into being their best selves, and following a career path or what not. Sherlock had never listened to those classes either.
"Alright." Sherlock agreed.
"Now the hospital has arranged an apartment for you, down Main Street in a very prime location. There you will find some furniture and same groceries, just to get you started out. We will be giving you a check weekly, for about three months, for two hundred dollars. This you can spend until you get your job lined up and your life together." The Doctor said, reading off some sort of paper that he was undoubtedly reading word from word.
"Alright." Sherlock agreed once more. He didn't feel thankful, for even though this would help him he would have no use of it. He didn't want to live in Main Street; he was going to go back to his house of course. That was where all of his own furniture was, that was where all of his clothes were, and all of his classical records. He would have no use of an apartment.
"We know a couple of employers who are willing to hire our patients once they are released, and we will give you a list of the managers and their phone numbers as soon as you are released. There is a phone in your apartment that is available for you to use." The Doctor continued.
"What about my house?" Sherlock asked finally, looking up towards where the Doctor's face contorted into something of a doubtful smile.
"Your house?" he wondered blankly.
"Yes, my house. The one I lived in, why can I not just go there?" Sherlock clarified. The Doctor laughed a little bit regretfully, dropping his fancy pen and leaning back in his chair as if he was preparing to deliver some very humorous bad news.
"Mr. Holmes your house has been condemned; it is unfit for anyone to live in. Especially now, after thirteen years." He said with a bit of a frown. "Surely someone had told you that?"
"No one tells me anything." Sherlock muttered a bit painfully, feeling almost as if someone had dragged that very same knife through his own throat, and through his own chest. His house, his beloved house where his thoughts wandered to when he could focus them...condemned?
"Why is it unfit to live in?" Sherlock clarified. The Doctor shrugged, tapping his fingers against the seat of his fancy chair as if he couldn't claim to know.
"I imagine deterioration, possibly some pests? Besides, there were multiple bodies in your freezer, surely they must have stunk?" he questioned with a raise of his eyebrow.
"They were frozen." Sherlock said obviously. "They never smelled."
"Yes alright. But you don't need to go back to your house, Mr. Holmes. We have everything already set up for you." Doctor Franklin insisted, going back on about the lovely accommodations they had prepared for when Sherlock was released. He really didn't like the idea of living a normal life, and even as Doctor Franklin chattered on he still didn't listen. The mere idea of having to separate from his house was ludicrous, and even if it wasn't fit for anyone to live in, he would still make an effort. He would abandon that stupid apartment and use his checks and his inherited fortune to fix his house up, at least enough so that he could live peacefully. John could help him with that.
"Do you know where John Watson is?" Sherlock asked finally, interrupted the Doctor's little speech about how to pay taxes in the appropriate intervals.
"John Watson? No I cannot claim to know." The Doctor admitted with a frown. He didn't seem to like to be interrupted.
"I imagine he had come to see me, that's why I ask. He probably gave you an address, is it still in town? Have I got any letters from him, perhaps?" Sherlock wondered a bit hopefully, his handcuffs clanging together as he wrung his hands anxiously.
"He has not given us anything, nor has he visited. For all we know, Mr. Holmes, John Watson might have left the country." The doctor admitted with a careless shrug. It was obvious that the whereabouts of John Watson meant nothing to him, and the mere fact that he could care so little was honestly a little bit insulting. How dare he just assume that Sherlock could brush off John's absence so easily? Was he trying to keep John's visits a secret for some reason, or was he correct when he told Sherlock the man had never once tried to get ahold of him? John had promised to visit; Sherlock had only just assumed he had been sent away for fear of his safety. That was what it was, wasn't it? Surely he had at least tried once?