Sherlock noticed many things about the facility. Small things, big things. Some more important than others. The main thing he noticed - well, noticed and cared about - was that good behaviour was rewarded.Heavily rewarded.

The B corridor was packed compared to the C corridor.

Sherlock had been moved to the B corridor almost a year ago and that was the main difference between the two. The number of people. It made sense, though. Lots more people aged nineteen and up had reasons to be depressed, stressed and suicidal and so on.

So, if you were well behaved and gave the staff no reason to watch you, they wouldn't have time to watch you. Sherlock had seen that happen with patients. People got away with small things all the time. They got caught, though, eventually, slowly getting more courageous and just ruining the window they had to do something to benefit themselves.

In Sherlock's eyes the solution to not being caught like those people is simple. He'll behave and not give any of the staff a reason to watch him. Then, instead of trying to get away with small things to test out how much he can do without getting noticed, he'd just do one big thing straight away.

No build up. Cut to the chase.

The twenty year old had come up with that theory almost four months ago. He hadn't been in any trouble since then and was the perfect patient. He attended every therapy session and a good majority of the group sessions. He was pleasant to the staff and to the other patients. He even smiled at his brother when he came to visit.

No one saw through his act, not even Mycroft, surprisingly... Well, Sherlock thinks that he has seen through it. The elder Holmes hasn't said a word so Sherlock's guess is that his brother has seen through the act but doesn't realise Sherlock's true aim. He probably thinks Sherlock is just trying to get out of this place as soon as possible... Well, he is doing that but not in the way his brother most likely thinks.

After all this good behaviour, he'd even been told he was on his way to being discharged. When his therapist, Dr. Lucy Hill, told him that, he knew he could put the next and final stage of his plan into action.

He volunteered himself to help the staff and some other well behaved patients to go through clothing that was in the lost and found (or have been taken from patients for whatever reason) to send to charities and third world countries. Dr Hill had happily signed him up, commenting that this helpfulness would only help him get examined to be discharged sooner rather than later.

Now, Sherlock sat among a heap of clothes, shifting them into boxes according to gender and age. He would occasionally look over at the staff that were helping and keeping an eye on them.

While they are well-behaved, it didn't mean they'd ever be left completely unsupervised.

He's careful about how he does it. For the first twenty minutes, every time he finds a lace or hoodie string that could be used to harm someone or himself, he goes over to the boxes that it meant for these things and places it in with the other potentially dangerous items.

After twenty minutes, he starts to put every other lace or hoodie string under the jumper he brought with him. It's risky. If they randomly decide to do a thorough check before sending them back to their rooms, he's screwed. They wouldn't ever let him do something like this again. He'd probably be dragged to the dreaded Corridor D. Sherlock had spoken to a few people that had been there and he knew from observing them that it wasn't a place he wanted to find himself in.

Over the course of two hours, he collects at least thirty laces and he doesn't go over that. He was taking a gamble by having that many already.

When the nurse announces that they were to get back to their rooms now to wash up for dinner, Sherlock places the items he held in the correct box before he picks up his jumper in one smooth move. He'd placed the laces and such in a way that meant he just had to grab the collar of the jumper and he'd pick everything up. Sherlock then folds the jumper over his arm and strolls towards the exit.

One of the male nurses smiles at him as he passes, making eye contact. Sherlock smiles back. 

"See you next week, Jason." Sherlock says as he nods at the other man.

"See you then, Sherlock." replies the nurse, smile widening.

Sherlock makes his way back to the room and he puts the jumper in a draw. He doesn't get the laces out, doesn't re-count them, doesn't so much as acknowledge their existence.

The nurses and doctors think that they're clever. They think that none of the patients see the pattern in their rounds to check rooms. To Sherlock, it's clear as day. 

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays, they past each room between ten past and twenty past each hour and quarter to and ten to each hour. On all other days it's on the hour give or take five minutes and half past the hour give or take five minutes.

During the night, it changes. They have someone check the rooms every hour after ten o'clock and then after two in the morning it's every three hours.

Occasionally, the odd nurse with nothing to do would wonder the halls but it was very rare for that to happen in the early hours of the morning.

Sherlock knows how to time it perfectly. In the dead of night. It'll be easy.

Sherlock goes to dinner and sits where he usually does, quietly eating and keeping to himself. When he's done, he gets a cup of water and places his plate in the rubbish bin.

Then it's back to his room to wait until it was time to go socialise with all the people he was pretending to like. It'll pay off soon, Sherlock.

Sherlock gives a small sigh as he sits on the bed. He glances to the clock and looks towards the door just as a nurse walks past. Right on time. He flashes a forced smile and she smiles back before walking on to check the next room.

He lays back on the bed and closes his eyes. 

At first, his mind is a blissful blank space... but then a fist comes swinging towards him and a knife comes down on his arm.

Sherlock immediately bolts upright, eyes flying open as a gasp is almost torn from him. He touches his arm and just like every time this happens he finds that there isn't anything but faded scars.

He takes deep breaths but the images keep coming. Punches. Kicks. Pinches. Cuts. Burns. All of it. It all hits him, just like it does every single day. None of it is pleasant. Blood is spilled, bodies permanently damaged, minds scarred. The former two only seemed to happen to Sherlock. He's unsure about the third thing yet.

He can't wait. He has to do it now. He doesn't want to be here another minute. He's been waiting too long already.

Sherlock stands and he stumbles towards his drawers, gasping for breath as he tries to bat away the memories that hit him.

The jumper is pulled out and the laces and strings fall everywhere. Sherlock doesn't think, doesn't look at the clock again. He just begins to tie the strings together. 

He's taught himself many things during his time as a happy children - including the art of tying knots.

He uses five pieces per layer and makes six layers. The knots hold them together well and they won't snap when they're all together like this.

Sherlock looks to the clock and his eyes widen. He doesn't have long. Ten minutes maximum. He's spent a lot of time making the knot.

He knows he should wait. Put his make shift noose away and wait just another twenty minutes but he just...physically can't. He just needs to end his thoughts right now and the only way to do that is to end his life on this miserable planet.

He needs to be quick.

Sherlock scrambles over to the hangers nailed into the wall. He tears his coat from it before placing the six loops of laces and string over it.

There are tears running down his face and he's not aware of his sobbing as he turns to face away from the loops. They easily go around his neck but it's too long with five them. Sherlock slides them off and turns around, tying it in the centre to form a smaller loop.

Now, he has to work it over his head. It's perfect. Not too loose that his head can slip right out.

Sherlock sobs again before he sinks to his knees and lets his body go completely slack. The laces tighten and cut off his air flow, slowly but surely taking him away from this place.

Chokes and gasps and then eventual unintelligible sounds and then nothing. His mouth opens and closes. Silent screams. 

He closes his eyes and allows the darkness to take over. Finally.

When Sherlock's eye open again, he groans and shifts. His body doesn't feel right. Heavy... It reminds him of waking up after a bad trip. Oh, God. He didn't do it again, did he? Mummy would be so disappointed... Father would be furious.

No, Sherlock, think... Mind palace Mycroft whispers the words to himself, distant and not as close as he'd usually sound. That just makes Sherlock think drugs again.

He's taken something. He's gone back.

Sherlock whimpers and forces himself to sit up.

"Where... Mycroft?" Sherlock groans.

"No. Not Mycroft." Dr. Hill says sternly, gazing at him with disappointed eyes.

Sherlock releases a small gasp as he realises. He's not back home or in some alley, trying to recover from his substance abuse. He's in the facility. Sitting across from his therapist... at a metal table?

"Where are we, Doctor Hill?" Sherlock mumbles, swallowing to try and get rid of the dryness in his mouth.

"Corridor D." She answers, usual smile gone.

No.. God.. No.

"No, Doctor Hill, please." Sherlock shakes his head. "I... I had a moment. I swear-"

"No, Sherlock." She replies sternly, giving a small glare. "You have betrayed my trust and purposely worked against us, behaving in order to collect those items. I truly thought that you were changing... You'll learn your lesson. A stay here with show you that we honestly just want to help you. I hope you understand soon, Sherlock." 

She stands and her composure breaks and a smile pushes on to her lips before she turns on her heel and begins to leave. 

"No! Doctor Hill, no! PLEASE!" Sherlock begs, a whimper leaving his mouth. 

He's left on the dark room for some time, he's not sure how long. When he's no longer thrashing around and shouting, two men enter the room and grasp either arm, unclasping the restraints.

He doesn't fight them. Not until there's an actual chance to escape. When he sees the corridor with doorless rooms, bars covering the exits just like a prison, he begins to squirm. When the door appears as they turn a corner, he begins to thrash again, wanting to make a dash for it.

"Let me go! Go back to your pregnant wife, look after her instead of fucking the cleaner!" Sherlock growls at one guard who stares at him blankly for a long moment before he grins.

"I love it when they gives us an excuse to use force." He laughs, tightening his hold on Sherlock and shoving him against the wall.

"Give, you imbecile! There's no s. Learn fucking English."

"Shut up!" He spits, slamming his knee into the back of Sherlock leg.

The young man cries out and then he's being dragged towards a cell. He cries out and tries with all his might to escape but the drug is still in his system and he still feels heavier and clumsier than usual.

The guards push and pull, their destination obvious. The cell door is being opened for him.

"No! You can't do this to me! You understand? My brother will have something to say about this! You cannot just... DETAIN me like this!" By the time Sherlock has finish screaming, he's been shoved into the cell and locked in.

The guard hisses something back but all Sherlock hears is "Freak!"

Sherlock yells and screams in frustration for some time before he gives up and slumps against the bars that made up his door. It's then that he becomes aware of a pair of dark eyes on him across the hall.

He looks up to see a boy around his age, a little younger most likely.

"So, what did you do?" The boy chuckles and gives a lazy grin.

Sherlock's nice guy act is no longer needed. He grunts and turns away from the bars, not meeting the boy's eyes or even acknowledging him.

"Nice to meet you too, Sherlock Holmes." He laughs.

Sherlock frowns and turns. "How do you know my name?"

A thin, black eyebrow is raised. "That's what the guard called you. Unless you want me to call you a freak but I doubt that."

"Piss off."

"Can't. I'm kinda locked up. Just like you."

Sherlock sighs and slumps further. There was a cot and a chair across from him but he remained slumped against the bars, not caring enough to move. "I don't have time for children, keep your thoughts to yourself."

Sherlock can feel the glare that is attempting to pierce his back.

"I am not a child!"

"The fact you have to deny it just proves to me that you are." Sherlock replies, eyes closing.

"Fuck you!" The boy replies before moving away from the door.

Sherlock smirks and doesn't say anything more.