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Description
“Hello, are you in here?”

There it was; the voice you’d heard on the phone. Well, in a manner of speaking anyway. In the same room as you, the voice sounded much more vivid, much more real. Had you come across such a voice in the street, it would have made you withdraw within yourself. As it was, this was the voice that had saved a small part of your soul from dying off altogether.

“(Y/n)?”

You were frozen to the seat of the toilet, holding your arms very close to your chest. Unlike what you’d said on the phone, the left one was still bleeding, and whilst it wasn’t a bad amount of blood that you were losing, there was a higher risk the large wounds near your elbow would become infected.

“(Y/n), are you-”

You started softly weeping, a mixture of pain and mental anguish struggling to contain themselves at the sound of someone who cared. A part of you instantly regretted pulling anyone into the hellish business of coping with your chronic depression, but another part of you knew you needed help, and needed it bad.

“I’m here.” You managed a hoarse whisper, the words an unnatural species. Rarely would you find yourself asking for help, yet here you were.

Outside your stall, you heard quick but sturdy footfalls approach you, halted only by the stall door. Just below it, you could see the end of a long, dark coat, hovering over a pair of leather shoes.
“Can I come in?” The deep voice asked.
You’d started to shake, adrenaline making your heart pump dangerously fast. Luckily, this gave you the push you needed to open the door, and with cold hands you released the latch.

The face you saw was not the one you’d imagined.
This particular face had eyebrows that were knitted together, eyes that were focused fiercely on you, lips that parted at the sight of your bloodied shirt, and cheekbones that predictably represented sharp wit.
In other words, this face looked worried.
You’d imagined anger and hatred, yet he looked worried.

“I’m sorry-”
“Let me see.” This person, who hadn’t even told you his name, had taken hold of your left arm and was gently pulling it towards him so he could see the damage you’d done. You offered little resistance, starting to cry once more as everything began to feel Very Real Indeed.
Still holding your left arm, the man affirmed his grip as he used his spare hand to bring out his phone, dialling three very distinctive numbers on the screen and pressing ‘call’.
“No, plea-”
“Hello, yes, I need an ambulance dispatched to Hyde Park-”
“No, no-”
He began to describe the nature of your problem in brief, and you tried in vain to pull your injured arm back. Your face was a mess of emotions as he frowned at you, and you ceased your movement under his glare.

Hanging up, he didn’t waste any time in informing of you what he was doing.
“You need medical attention and I know the last thing you want is to be hospitalised alone and afraid, but I can’t fix this, I can’t. Now, I’m going to give you two options: either we go to the hospital, tell them what happened, they’ll stitch you up and detain you until it’s deemed safe for you to leave, or we tell them that someone attacked you. They’ll stitch you up, and I can get you out, only if you let me help you.”
He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply from you, and like a deer in the headlights you panicked, gaping for words.
He sighed, letting go of your arm as you quickly withdrew it.
“I assume that means you wouldn’t mind what happens either w-”
“No, no, I don’t want to be stuck there, not again...” All your words sounded half formed, but the man understood you perfectly well.

You were confused for a moment, at the sight of the man’s right hand being offered to you in such a time of crisis. Looking at him more intently only caused him to offer the hand again, with more determination, and you accepted his offer of a handshake.
“The name’s Sherlock, never really had a chance to tell you until now, but it wasn’t really important before...anyway, since we’ll most likely be getting more acquainted with each-other, it’s best we at least know each-other’s names.”
You nodded, and before you really had chance to process what was happening, he’d swapped hands and pulled you outside to the awaiting ambulance.

The journey to the hospital happened mostly in silence, the only real noise coming from the engine of the ambulance, the siren clearing the traffic for you, and the paramedic asking you questions about the injury as she cleaned it and temporarily patched it. You were fairly certain that many more things were going on, but you’d tuned out of your conscience, aware of only Sherlock in a seat near you, observing.
Sherlock appeared to be calm and collected, giving off an air that he knew more than the paramedic did, and to an extent you knew he did. The paramedic didn’t know that you’d mutilated yourself, and hopefully it would stay that way.

You remembered the last time you’d badly injured yourself. You hadn’t remembered calling an ambulance, but it had arrived and the paramedics had quickly patched you up to the best of their ability. Your silence had acted as an indication of your ill health, and under the bruised knuckles and bandaged wrists, they’d seen a very damaged person who wasn’t well enough to go out into the world alone.
Within hours you’d been admitted to the closest mental hospital, and were searched for any blades or sharp objects within your possession. They’d asked if you’d been carrying any pills either, to which you’d said no, and they had accepted your word without any more intervention.
After a quick crash tour around the place, you were guided out into the communal garden to meet the other residents, each as mentally ill as you. Some were worse, some were better off, but you’d all felt the same pain as each other.
Every few days you’d had to speak to a councillor, and it was too easy to see through their façade of caring. Yes, they cared to an extent, but only as far as their pay-check would allow.
It hadn’t been a terrible experience, but it was one you hadn’t wished to repeat.

You looked over to Sherlock in the ambulance with desperate eyes, thoughts of the mental hospital flooding your mind once again. The strict routines, the false impression of free-will, the total lack of privacy, it felt all too real and way too close.
Sherlock, seeing your desperation, lowered his chin in a way of telling you not to worry; he had it all under control.

At the hospital, Sherlock did most of the talking, although that consisted of about fifty words in total. You only murmured a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to go along with Sherlock’s plan, though the three hour wait for a doctor to become available was near-torture for your nerves.
Every minute you were sat waiting, you thought of more and more scenarios where you didn’t make it out of the hospital for the next few weeks or months. Every ten or so minutes, you could see nurses glancing over at you sat in the waiting room, thinking that their pointing was hidden behind the reception desk. They were discussing all the patients that were waiting to be consulted, creating a hierarchy of who should be seen sooner than others. It felt like they were just pointing at you-

“If they’re any good at their job, they’ll notice that you’ve started to bleed through your bandage and you’ll be seen sooner, however I think that woman opposite us will take priority.” Sherlock spoke in a low tone, trying to avoid most people around you listening in.
You looked down at your bandage, unaware that the blood had been leaking through until now. It felt mostly numb from the painkilling injection they’d given you on the way there, but you could feel it’s effects wearing off as time passed.
Glancing up at the woman opposite, there didn’t appear to be anything visually wrong with her. She didn’t seem overly discomforted, she appeared to be healthy, and the only problem she appeared to have was the threat of falling asleep in the wait.
Sherlock must have seen your confusion, so he further explained the matter.
“It’s her right eye, do you see?”
You narrowed your eyes towards her and tried to notice something different about the offending eye, but you could notice nothing.
“She came in with loss of vision in her right eye, but recently she’s lost all movement within the socket, not that she’s noticed. Her eyelid has begun to slacken and I’m afraid that their original suspicions of a cognitive problem have most likely been proven true.”
“How’d you know she couldn’t see out of it?”
“She narrowed her eyes towards objects, not used to this new range of vision, and her head was turned slightly to the right, implying that only her left eye had vision. I noticed the eye had stopped moving ten minutes ago, but the nurses have only noticed now.”
“They have?” You looked over to them, and you saw them quietly hustling over a clipboard as they all looked over to the female in question.
“Cognitive problems almost always come first in a crisis, as the risk of permanent brain damage – especially with acceleration of symptoms so quickly – is high.” He paused, glancing over at the nurses. “They’re preparing to consult her as quickly as possible without making it seem like an emergency.”

As if on queue, a nurse came out from behind the desk and read aloud the woman’s name.
“Juliana Hopkins?”
The woman stood up, quickly gathering her coat and following the nurse out of the waiting room.

“That means you’re next.” Sherlock murmured once more, and you really hoped that you would be seen soon. You were starting to feel pain in your arm again.

It was within twenty five minutes that you were called in to the consultation room, where you were faced with a nurse rather than the doctor you’d expected.
She explained that because the waiting room was so full, everyone was being consulted by a nurse, and if she deemed it fit, you would be shown through to the doctor.

After she was done talking, she proceeded to remove your bandage.
She made a few professional but suggestive remarks on the location of the wound, and Sherlock remained mute at this stage, knowing that words describing what ‘had happened’ would sound more legitimate from the mouth of the injured person.
It didn’t look so bad once it was cleaned, and she confirmed to you that she could stitch up the wound without having to wait for a doctor.

What a Godsend!

Numbing it again was probably the worst part. The injections had to hit the raw tissue, but it was bliss when it was numbed once more.
Stitching it up was quite fascinating for you to watch. Mute-Sherlock stared consistently at you, seemingly captivated at how you watched your own skin being stitched together. It made you a little uncomfortable, being watched so closely, but if it meant you got out of this place sooner, you were happy to tolerate it.
Once the nurse was covering and bandaging your upper forearm, you started to relax a bit more. You were almost out of the hospital, you had someone who said they were going to help you, and maybe, just maybe, you could start piecing your life back together.

But your life was rarely so neat. Just like your medical history…

“Would you be happy staying in overnight?”
The question had caught you off-guard, and it had apparently had the same effect on Sherlock too.
“Overnight?” You asked, eyes widening. Sherlock had a very similar expression, only for a moment, before he narrowed his eyes at the nurse.
“Why would she need to stay in overnight?” He leaned forward in his seat.
“Well, it says here that you’ve had a history of severe migraines,” she flicked through your medical history, “specifically in relation to frequent fainting...how do you feel?”
You were relieved to know she hadn’t found the part with your self harm. The relief was unreal.
“I feel fine.” You nodded, in the way a child would nod if they were trying to convince an adult that they hadn’t eaten all the chocolate spread that was evidently around their mouth. “I’m not dizzy.”
“That’s good, though I’d still feel more comfortable if you were to stay in-”
“I don’t feel like I’m going to have a migraine. And I’ll be under supervision, so if something was to happen I wouldn’t be alone.”
The nurse stared at you for a moment, judging some unseen criteria as she lowered her head to the clipboard again. Your answer seemed to satisfy something she hadn’t mentioned yet, perhaps the part where you’d be under supervision…

And so within ten minutes, you’d been discharged and Sherlock had hailed a cab for the two of you.
You hadn’t spoken to Sherlock much, which had made the wait in the hospital feel dreadfully longer than it had to be, so it was a welcome change when Sherlock started to speak to you in the cab.

“History of migraines?” He glanced at you, and you inclined your head away from him, subconsciously placing your right hand on your bandage.
“Yeah...”
“Fainting?”
You sighed, knowing what he was getting at.
The migraines were a lie. Any severe head pain you’d suffered from in the past was because of blood loss, which is why you’d fainted frequently too. Obviously, you’d been quite the liar in the past.
“Where are we going?” You tried to change the subject, and Sherlock took the bait and obliged to leave your past behind for now.
“To see a doctor.”
“We are?!” You jumped up in your seat, and he smiled to himself.
“An army doctor, to be precise.”

Description
“Hello, are you in here?”

There it was; the voice you’d heard on the phone. Well, in a manner of speaking anyway. In the same room as you, the voice sounded much more vivid, much more real. Had you come across such a voice in the street, it would have made you withdraw within yourself. As it was, this was the voice that had saved a small part of your soul from dying off altogether.

“(Y/n)?”

You were frozen to the seat of the toilet, holding your arms very close to your chest. Unlike what you’d said on the phone, the left one was still bleeding, and whilst it wasn’t a bad amount of blood that you were losing, there was a higher risk the large wounds near your elbow would become infected.

“(Y/n), are you-”

You started softly weeping, a mixture of pain and mental anguish struggling to contain themselves at the sound of someone who cared. A part of you instantly regretted pulling anyone into the hellish business of coping with your chronic depression, but another part of you knew you needed help, and needed it bad.

“I’m here.” You managed a hoarse whisper, the words an unnatural species. Rarely would you find yourself asking for help, yet here you were.

Outside your stall, you heard quick but sturdy footfalls approach you, halted only by the stall door. Just below it, you could see the end of a long, dark coat, hovering over a pair of leather shoes.
“Can I come in?” The deep voice asked.
You’d started to shake, adrenaline making your heart pump dangerously fast. Luckily, this gave you the push you needed to open the door, and with cold hands you released the latch.

The face you saw was not the one you’d imagined.
This particular face had eyebrows that were knitted together, eyes that were focused fiercely on you, lips that parted at the sight of your bloodied shirt, and cheekbones that predictably represented sharp wit.
In other words, this face looked worried.
You’d imagined anger and hatred, yet he looked worried.

“I’m sorry-”
“Let me see.” This person, who hadn’t even told you his name, had taken hold of your left arm and was gently pulling it towards him so he could see the damage you’d done. You offered little resistance, starting to cry once more as everything began to feel Very Real Indeed.
Still holding your left arm, the man affirmed his grip as he used his spare hand to bring out his phone, dialling three very distinctive numbers on the screen and pressing ‘call’.
“No, plea-”
“Hello, yes, I need an ambulance dispatched to Hyde Park-”
“No, no-”
He began to describe the nature of your problem in brief, and you tried in vain to pull your injured arm back. Your face was a mess of emotions as he frowned at you, and you ceased your movement under his glare.

Hanging up, he didn’t waste any time in informing of you what he was doing.
“You need medical attention and I know the last thing you want is to be hospitalised alone and afraid, but I can’t fix this, I can’t. Now, I’m going to give you two options: either we go to the hospital, tell them what happened, they’ll stitch you up and detain you until it’s deemed safe for you to leave, or we tell them that someone attacked you. They’ll stitch you up, and I can get you out, only if you let me help you.”
He seemed to be waiting for some sort of reply from you, and like a deer in the headlights you panicked, gaping for words.
He sighed, letting go of your arm as you quickly withdrew it.
“I assume that means you wouldn’t mind what happens either w-”
“No, no, I don’t want to be stuck there, not again...” All your words sounded half formed, but the man understood you perfectly well.

You were confused for a moment, at the sight of the man’s right hand being offered to you in such a time of crisis. Looking at him more intently only caused him to offer the hand again, with more determination, and you accepted his offer of a handshake.
“The name’s Sherlock, never really had a chance to tell you until now, but it wasn’t really important before...anyway, since we’ll most likely be getting more acquainted with each-other, it’s best we at least know each-other’s names.”
You nodded, and before you really had chance to process what was happening, he’d swapped hands and pulled you outside to the awaiting ambulance.

The journey to the hospital happened mostly in silence, the only real noise coming from the engine of the ambulance, the siren clearing the traffic for you, and the paramedic asking you questions about the injury as she cleaned it and temporarily patched it. You were fairly certain that many more things were going on, but you’d tuned out of your conscience, aware of only Sherlock in a seat near you, observing.
Sherlock appeared to be calm and collected, giving off an air that he knew more than the paramedic did, and to an extent you knew he did. The paramedic didn’t know that you’d mutilated yourself, and hopefully it would stay that way.

You remembered the last time you’d badly injured yourself. You hadn’t remembered calling an ambulance, but it had arrived and the paramedics had quickly patched you up to the best of their ability. Your silence had acted as an indication of your ill health, and under the bruised knuckles and bandaged wrists, they’d seen a very damaged person who wasn’t well enough to go out into the world alone.
Within hours you’d been admitted to the closest mental hospital, and were searched for any blades or sharp objects within your possession. They’d asked if you’d been carrying any pills either, to which you’d said no, and they had accepted your word without any more intervention.
After a quick crash tour around the place, you were guided out into the communal garden to meet the other residents, each as mentally ill as you. Some were worse, some were better off, but you’d all felt the same pain as each other.
Every few days you’d had to speak to a councillor, and it was too easy to see through their façade of caring. Yes, they cared to an extent, but only as far as their pay-check would allow.
It hadn’t been a terrible experience, but it was one you hadn’t wished to repeat.

You looked over to Sherlock in the ambulance with desperate eyes, thoughts of the mental hospital flooding your mind once again. The strict routines, the false impression of free-will, the total lack of privacy, it felt all too real and way too close.
Sherlock, seeing your desperation, lowered his chin in a way of telling you not to worry; he had it all under control.

At the hospital, Sherlock did most of the talking, although that consisted of about fifty words in total. You only murmured a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to go along with Sherlock’s plan, though the three hour wait for a doctor to become available was near-torture for your nerves.
Every minute you were sat waiting, you thought of more and more scenarios where you didn’t make it out of the hospital for the next few weeks or months. Every ten or so minutes, you could see nurses glancing over at you sat in the waiting room, thinking that their pointing was hidden behind the reception desk. They were discussing all the patients that were waiting to be consulted, creating a hierarchy of who should be seen sooner than others. It felt like they were just pointing at you-

“If they’re any good at their job, they’ll notice that you’ve started to bleed through your bandage and you’ll be seen sooner, however I think that woman opposite us will take priority.” Sherlock spoke in a low tone, trying to avoid most people around you listening in.
You looked down at your bandage, unaware that the blood had been leaking through until now. It felt mostly numb from the painkilling injection they’d given you on the way there, but you could feel it’s effects wearing off as time passed.
Glancing up at the woman opposite, there didn’t appear to be anything visually wrong with her. She didn’t seem overly discomforted, she appeared to be healthy, and the only problem she appeared to have was the threat of falling asleep in the wait.
Sherlock must have seen your confusion, so he further explained the matter.
“It’s her right eye, do you see?”
You narrowed your eyes towards her and tried to notice something different about the offending eye, but you could notice nothing.
“She came in with loss of vision in her right eye, but recently she’s lost all movement within the socket, not that she’s noticed. Her eyelid has begun to slacken and I’m afraid that their original suspicions of a cognitive problem have most likely been proven true.”
“How’d you know she couldn’t see out of it?”
“She narrowed her eyes towards objects, not used to this new range of vision, and her head was turned slightly to the right, implying that only her left eye had vision. I noticed the eye had stopped moving ten minutes ago, but the nurses have only noticed now.”
“They have?” You looked over to them, and you saw them quietly hustling over a clipboard as they all looked over to the female in question.
“Cognitive problems almost always come first in a crisis, as the risk of permanent brain damage – especially with acceleration of symptoms so quickly – is high.” He paused, glancing over at the nurses. “They’re preparing to consult her as quickly as possible without making it seem like an emergency.”

As if on queue, a nurse came out from behind the desk and read aloud the woman’s name.
“Juliana Hopkins?”
The woman stood up, quickly gathering her coat and following the nurse out of the waiting room.

“That means you’re next.” Sherlock murmured once more, and you really hoped that you would be seen soon. You were starting to feel pain in your arm again.

It was within twenty five minutes that you were called in to the consultation room, where you were faced with a nurse rather than the doctor you’d expected.
She explained that because the waiting room was so full, everyone was being consulted by a nurse, and if she deemed it fit, you would be shown through to the doctor.

After she was done talking, she proceeded to remove your bandage.
She made a few professional but suggestive remarks on the location of the wound, and Sherlock remained mute at this stage, knowing that words describing what ‘had happened’ would sound more legitimate from the mouth of the injured person.
It didn’t look so bad once it was cleaned, and she confirmed to you that she could stitch up the wound without having to wait for a doctor.

What a Godsend!

Numbing it again was probably the worst part. The injections had to hit the raw tissue, but it was bliss when it was numbed once more.
Stitching it up was quite fascinating for you to watch. Mute-Sherlock stared consistently at you, seemingly captivated at how you watched your own skin being stitched together. It made you a little uncomfortable, being watched so closely, but if it meant you got out of this place sooner, you were happy to tolerate it.
Once the nurse was covering and bandaging your upper forearm, you started to relax a bit more. You were almost out of the hospital, you had someone who said they were going to help you, and maybe, just maybe, you could start piecing your life back together.

But your life was rarely so neat. Just like your medical history…

“Would you be happy staying in overnight?”
The question had caught you off-guard, and it had apparently had the same effect on Sherlock too.
“Overnight?” You asked, eyes widening. Sherlock had a very similar expression, only for a moment, before he narrowed his eyes at the nurse.
“Why would she need to stay in overnight?” He leaned forward in his seat.
“Well, it says here that you’ve had a history of severe migraines,” she flicked through your medical history, “specifically in relation to frequent fainting...how do you feel?”
You were relieved to know she hadn’t found the part with your self harm. The relief was unreal.
“I feel fine.” You nodded, in the way a child would nod if they were trying to convince an adult that they hadn’t eaten all the chocolate spread that was evidently around their mouth. “I’m not dizzy.”
“That’s good, though I’d still feel more comfortable if you were to stay in-”
“I don’t feel like I’m going to have a migraine. And I’ll be under supervision, so if something was to happen I wouldn’t be alone.”
The nurse stared at you for a moment, judging some unseen criteria as she lowered her head to the clipboard again. Your answer seemed to satisfy something she hadn’t mentioned yet, perhaps the part where you’d be under supervision…

And so within ten minutes, you’d been discharged and Sherlock had hailed a cab for the two of you.
You hadn’t spoken to Sherlock much, which had made the wait in the hospital feel dreadfully longer than it had to be, so it was a welcome change when Sherlock started to speak to you in the cab.

“History of migraines?” He glanced at you, and you inclined your head away from him, subconsciously placing your right hand on your bandage.
“Yeah...”
“Fainting?”
You sighed, knowing what he was getting at.
The migraines were a lie. Any severe head pain you’d suffered from in the past was because of blood loss, which is why you’d fainted frequently too. Obviously, you’d been quite the liar in the past.
“Where are we going?” You tried to change the subject, and Sherlock took the bait and obliged to leave your past behind for now.
“To see a doctor.”
“We are?!” You jumped up in your seat, and he smiled to himself.
“An army doctor, to be precise.”