Day 4 + 5 - Friday evening + Saturday morning, March 23rd, 1867

It was getting dark outside when Sherlock was picked up from the common room a bit later. The carer escorted him to the dinning hall. After the meal he was collected again and brought back to his room.

To his shock, the attendant unlocked his room's door before he could enter. Sherlock was quite daunted about the fact that they had apparently started to keep him from entering his only safe haven.

As soon as he was alone in the semi-dark room, he curled up on the bed trying to shake off the unpleasant sensation of being at the institution's mercy. Underlying, he realised, he was having cravings. The constant dire hunger for relief was probably not as bad as it would be in real life, but throughout the day, his thoughts had repeatedly returned to how yearning and empty he felt. The urgent need to fill that emptiness had become almost impossible to endure during dinner. Repeatedly, he had caught himself thinking about how to break into the asylum's pharmacy.

Walker came by half an hour later and changed his bandage.

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Sherlock rested until two hours after midnight. Then he prepared for another nightly excursion. The goal was to learn the layout of the facility and the surroundings.

The view outside his window was not very encouraging. He had expected the almost full moon to be out but it wasn't visible. It was a pitch dark cloudy night. He stared into the dark. Obviously, there was no illuminated city whose light was reflected by the clouds. In modern times he would have therefore assumed that he was far away from a city, but in this era that

piece of observation was useless, since light pollution was not an issue.

His window overlooked the gardens; beyond that lay the park and behind that, fields in the distance. This night, he wanted to find out what the other side of the complex looked like and what was behind the man in the sentry box. All the corridor windows looked out to the opposite side, but the view was blocked by another building that was erected parallel to the one he was in. By now he understood that the very long structure he was in was constructed in a roughly convex shape.

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Already familiar with the route, he reached the guardhouse fast. He passed the keeper without any trouble; when the man turned to fetch another newspaper Sherlock just ducked and tiptoed past the window.

The hall widened and he found a direction sign board that guided the ways to doctor's offices, the reception and the custodian.

He followed the way down the interlocking corridors.

It was a rather long walk. His socked feet prevented his steps from echoing through the silence, but the cold became uncomfortable within a few minutes.

At first glance, this part of the building seemed completely abandoned at night. What was surprising, though, was that none of the connecting doors were locked. At daytime, most gates were firmly in place. Patients were not allowed into this part of the building. Maybe at night the staff relied on the fact that all the inmates were locked away and keeping the doors open was facilitating work.

Further down the hall, he slowed down when he heard voices in the distance. He had reached the access to a large space that was most likely the entrance hall. It was sizeable and more pretentious than expected. Carefully, he peeked around the corner and saw a richly decorated lobby as well as the massive curved shapes of two ornate staircases.

He made sure to stay in the dark and approached carefully. On the other side of the hall, a doorkeeper, a guard and a janitor were standing in a lit corner near a large entry door. They were smoking and not paying much attention to their surroundings. Nevertheless, there was no way to get past them. They overlooked the entire lobby and the staircase and would spot him the moment he stepped out of the shadows.

Even if he could manage to get past them, the double-winged door was probably locked. On one hand, it was ornamented enough to be the main entrance; on the other it might just be the doctors' and employees' access.

No matter who entered here, there was probably another guard outside, at a gate.

The administration building might be the best option for an escape route. But he needed information about the exterior to plan an escape route. If he wanted to succeed, he needed to meticulously plan it beforehand.

His next objective was to find a spot high enough to overlook the grounds. He spent over an hour looking for one but it turned out to be futile. Both buildings had the same height and shape and it was too dark.

The understanding that it was all far more difficult lay heavy on him. He'd need a lot more intel before his endeavour had any chance of being successful.

He went back down the wide hallway to find a window as close to the entrance door as possible. It didn't take long to find one. Heedful of the sounds behind him, he climbed onto the window sill and leaned over to the right as far as he could.

Finally, he could see something massive in the dark. The buildings were actually connected by a huge clock tower that might be the centre of the entire complex. This meant the large wooden door in the main hall must lead to the clock tower - not outside. There was no way out in that direction at all.

No wonder it was poorly guarded. His heart sank.

This also meant he'd need to find a passage into the tower to reach the other building, which probably housed the main entrance. The main hall was a big open space with a very high ceiling. It was obvious that in the lower levels there couldn't be a way to change over into the tower, but maybe there was roof access or a connected attic.

It was getting late and first activities would start at five, so he decided to start the return trip and search for a passage another night.

He made it back to his room without incident.

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The after effects of nightly activities hit him the next morning when he was woken from deep sleep by a loud knocking on his door.

The unnerved attendant who unlocked the door was the same man who had accompanied him to the gardens the day before. He escorted Sherlock to the facilities, where a large group of half naked patients were already going through their morning routine.

The attendant left him there, but two other carers were present and constantly reminded the inmates to hurry up and finish. The rooms were overcrowded and smelly. One more reminder that the asylum was filled with three times more patients than it was originally built for. Sherlock understood that at some point order and control had become more important than treatment and care.

The leaden tiredness intensified Sherlock's sensitivities and when he entered the toilets, the odour was so overwhelming he gagged. Although cleaning squads consisting of trustworthy inmates constantly roamed the floors, the state of the facilities was poor. There was one water closet for twelve people if Sherlock had calculated correctly.1

Sherlock hastened to escape the stench but when he stepped back into the corridor, he found he had to join a group of waiting men to be escorted back to the dormitories to change.

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Half an hour later Sherlock was left at the refectory by another carer and someone greeted him when he entered. He ignored it, didn't even look up. Recently, when someone called the false name they had given him, it made his hairs stand on end. He realised he hadn't even tried to look into anyone's eyes in days. It was too much work, he couldn't handle it.

In his youth, a stupid therapist had tried to convince him it was an essential life skill and had therefore tried to force him to practice it. It had been vile back then and it still took a lot of effort. As an adult, he understood that most neurotypical people found it odd when eye contact wasn't executed properly. It could be a helpful tool in his detective work, but if he didn't need it, he didn't put effort into it. The only thing worth any effort at this point was to find John.

Hesitantly, he walked through the large room that hummed with voices. For a moment, he stopped and looked around, trying to spot Watson, but it was as unsuccessful as before.

Dejected, he made his way over to his place. Paterson was already seated.

Only when he sat down at his place, he realised that trying to figure out the layout of the premises on his own was a waste of time. After a moment of hesitation he decided he trusted Paterson enough to ask the seasoned man for information. He treaded carefully and started the conversation by asking about the layout of the park.

Paterson reminded him that it didn't matter because neither of them were allowed there and that Sherlock should feel privileged that he had been allowed to the inner gardens before, which was unusual. Sherlock's face must have shown his disappointment because Paterson promised him a game of chess later, that would provide plenty of opportunity to chat.

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An hour later they entered the richly decorated common room and were greeted enthusiastically by George. Instead of sitting down, Sherlock was dragged off to the music room by both George and Paterson.

Trying to show the young man how to play the violin was not very successful. George couldn't find the right spots on the plain neck to play a scale or move the bow properly.

"Is there anyone who plays the mandolin here?" Sherlock asked Paterson while George tried to coax a smooth sound out of the violin. He was putting a lot of effort into it but it was too much to concentrate on at the same time. It would be for any beginner who had only rudimentary musical background.

Sherlock knew mandolins had the same notes at the same spots as violins. What made the mandolin easier was the fact that there was a fretboard, which made finding the right finger positions easier. Once one had learned to play the mandolin, it was considerably simpler to play the violin. The mandolin had G, D, A and E strings, the same as the violin. Additionally, the right hand moves were uncomplicated, as was holding the instrument.

"I don't know, but I will find out," Paterson answered and vanished.

Sherlock was not a good violin teacher, he learned. Both he and George left the music room some time later in a quite frustrated mood. In the end George had asked Sherlock to play, but he wasn't ready to try again, much to the boy's dismay.

They returned to the common room and found Paterson talking to people. George turned to a table with papers and pencils he had left behind earlier. A carer promptly rebuked him for leaving the pens out unattended.

Sherlock only had eyes for the writing utensils. He sat down next to George and pretended to start drawing a violin. The carer sent the boy away and told Sherlock to bring the utensils back once he was finished. The moment the man turned his back, Sherlock took a new sheet of paper and started to write.

He was sure they would hold back every letter he'd bother to try to send out, so he made a decision.

When Paterson returned and sat down opposite him with a chess board in his hand, he asked in a low voice, "May I ask you a favour?"

"Depends," Paterson raised his eyebrows. "Do you want me to do something that would risk me getting out of here? No. Anything else… we'll see."

"Is it possible to give your wife a letter from me and ask her to put it in a pillar box without anyone from this institution noticing?"

Pillar boxes were a relatively new occurrence, the first had arrived in London in 1855. Only a few seconds after the words passed his lips he remembered that Paterson had said his wife was dead and that he had also said she visited him. He bit his lip, fearing he had blundered.

Why had it taken him so long to notice this?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… You said she died. I am confused." He decided that honesty was the best approach.

"She did. I remarried. My new wife is a piece of gold and she deserves better than me. I wonder if she only married me because she took pity on me… I have nothing worth anything to offer for her patience and kindness."

"I just want to reassure my landlady that I am okay," Sherlock hastily explained. "She too is more patient than I deserve. She cares for me and I owe her."

"That doesn't sound too dangerous, does it? Seal it, I will address it to my aunt, so that if anyone spots it, we can pretend it's for her. Write the address you want it sent to on a separate sheet. I'll ask my wife to put it in a new envelope at home."

Sherlock was slightly impressed, he hadn't expected the man to be so cunning. He didn't waste time and continued to write. He addressed the letter to Mrs Hudson and wrote just a few lines in which he explained where he was and that he missed her. There was no mention of John's name. Even if Paterson's wife read it, she wouldn't be any wiser. It was worth a try. Mrs Hudson would immediately identify his writing, as would John. He signed with William, folded the paper and left it on the table. Next, he wrote his own address on another paper and folded it a few times. Paterson was careful to pick it up when no one looked.

While they played their first round of chess, Sherlock tried to casually find out a few more details about the grounds. At first, he wanted to know if there was a city nearby.

"Of course not. This is a place out in a beautiful countryside that is supposed to provide clean air! It's at least ten miles to the next village. You probably passed through it when you arrived. The train station is there," Paterson explained.

"I was brought here without my knowledge or my consent while I was unconscious," Sherlock stated in a low voice.

"Really?" Paterson frowned.

Sherlock didn't know what to say so he added, "I get lost because I can't figure out what these buildings look like. I get into trouble because of this," he lied. "It would help me find my way more easily if I understand the layout," he added. "The other building, the one you look at from the corridors, what is it for?"

"Mostly administration, but also laundry, workshops… and it's where they do the first step of preparing the food. Wait, here."

Paterson reached for the small pile of unused paper and a colour lead pencil, then started drawing after he made sure no one was looking.

"What…?" Sherlock started, but Paterson interrupted him.

"You better hush up, because if anyone catches us doing this we'll get in serious trouble."

A bent row of connected rectangles appeared on the paper, then a second row next to it. It was immediately clear that Paterson was drawing some kind of map.

To cover up what they were doing, Sherlock took a sheet of paper himself and started drawing very rudimentary violin shapes. He missed his violin.

On another sheet, he drew a more detailed top view of a peg box. If someone stepped over they would need at least two sheets with drawings to cover up what they were doing.

Patterson added more lines to the map; apparently, he was adding what must be the airing court they had visited two days ago.

From there, Sherlock had seen that the buildings were five storeys high. All the levels above the ground level were wards, he had learned earlier.

"This is the clock tower, the only connection between the two buildings," Paterson explained while he added a small rectangle connecting the two curved buildings. "You can only see it when you go to the end of a ward and lean to the right as much as you can while looking out of a window."

Sherlock's mood darkened, another dead end.

"We are here, right?" Sherlock pointed at the third building segment from the middle.

"Yes," the other man agreed and then added a third parallel building in the row and only in front of that, he wrote down 'main entrance'.

Sherlock's hopes sank even more.

"What are those?" Sherlock pointed at dotted brown lines while he tried to look busy with his own drawing.

"Walls so high no one can climb over them. "

To Sherlock's horror, Paterson drew a second row of high walls around the buildings as a whole, then a third further out.

"Why are there walls around here?" Sherlock pointed at small sections of the wards that had no access to the airing court, but the area directly in front of them seemed to have an enclosed small space.

"That's the closed ward's airing courts. They don't even have grass there - or benches. It's where the real bad cases are locked in. Or where you land when you really piss off the staff."

Sherlock then assumed the little brown rectangles in front of the other ward buildings were benches.

"Where is the women's building?"

"On the opposite side of the grounds, you can't see it at all from here. It won't even fit on this sheet of paper. Give me a moment, I will show you."

The last information was very discouraging, it meant the complex was even bigger.

"We are not allowed contact with the ladies and it is quite a long way to the other side of the complex. No chance for any kind of romance. The buildings have separate entrance ways and separate parks. We only share a main access road and the main gate at its end."

Sherlock's jaw worked.

"You need to relax, my friend. Want a cigarette? We can go to the smoking room. They have matches there," Paterson offered.

"Is it allowed to have those?"

"I am, at least under supervision."

"You are allowed that but they don't trust you to go to the parks?" Sherlock wanted to know. Fire seemed to be much more of a threat than someone escaping to the parks.

"Well, smoking is good for your health.2 It's medicine. Walking, you can do in the airing court or the inner gardens," Paterson replied, looking at his map.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He'd really like a smoke.

Paterson gave him a wink and continued in a low voice, "The only trees are in the outer park… far away from any walls. Safety, you know. The first wall is the one between the inner courtyard and the park and there is another wall around the park that separates it from the fields. The fields are separated from the outside by a very high stout iron fence. I've been there to work, in the fields, I mean. Escaping over the walls is impossible. Don't try, dear boy." Apparently, Paterson had understood why he was asking. Sherlock was horrified to be so easily readable.

People must have tried to escape for years, the place was designed to keep desperate souls in.

"This is the superintendent's villa," Paterson informed him while drawing a big house a bit away from the row of buildings.

"He lives on the grounds or is that outside the compound?"

"Oh, no, this is more like the centre," Paterson said while adding more details, like nurses' homes.

The map was a daunting sight. Sherlock felt his blood pressure drop and his face pale. There was no way Sherlock could escape in the direction he had put his hopes on, because it was not the back of the compound, it was the centre.

The small bit of hope he had tried to keep alive dwindled. The problem was far bigger than expected.

The grounds were not just huge, they were vast. The premises were like an entire village of its own. Escaping might be possible but would need months of exploration and careful studying of the routines.

Sherlock also understood that if his first attempt to escape failed, he probably wouldn't get another chance because they would put him in the high security tract.

He leaned back, trying to hide the distress the revelation was giving him. To overplay it, he took a pencil and marked all the areas he was already familiar with in a pale shade of apple green.

When the attendant stood up, Sherlock knew he hadn't managed well enough. Luckily, Paterson reacted fast, and swiftly shoved his map under one of Sherlock's violin drawings.

"Anything interesting you are drawing there?" the carer asked when he stopped next to their table, looking at the paper.

"Yes, yes," Paterson said. "Greenbaum was just telling me about his violin, Sir," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, pointing at Sherlock.

"I heard about his performance yesterday, but his name is Greenberg, Paterson. Can't you even remember his name?" the attendant scoffed.

Sherlock froze, it was another mental punch in the face.

How had he missed that?

He should have noticed!

Some people called him Greenberg, others Greenbaum. Berg and Baum were both actual German words. Berg meant mountain and Baum was the word for tree.

"What?" Sherlock stammered, stupefied. Then he realised that both trees and mountains had appeared in his nightmares.

"But Miller called him Greenbaum the other day," Paterson tried to rectify the rude answer.

"I am sure it was a mix-up. Happens all the time, these German words all sound the same, don't they?" Sherlock hurried to say, but his voice was hoarse and he felt his disquiet was clearly visible. "Let's have a walk," he suggested, in dire need to escape the situation. "I am stuck with this chess move and I need a bit of fresh air to get my brain working again," he added when Paterson was about to say something else.

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As soon as they were out of hearing range, Paterson asked, "What is this about?"

"I don't know. But I will find out," Sherlock answered. It was too cold to run around the garden without a jacket for longer than five minutes.

"I am sure Miller called you Greenbaum," the Scot mused. "So, what is your name, lad?"

"My name is neither Greenberg nor Greenbaum but you can't tell anyone, can I rely on that?"

Paterson stared at him for a moment. "I don't understand."

"Me neither. I need you to keep this between us. Can you promise me to keep this quiet?"

"Sure, my boy."

Sherlock started a mental logging process to memorise when one of the names had been mentioned and who had used which.

"Do you remember who called me 'Greenberg'?"

"He was the first," Paterson stated.

Sherlock was a bit disappointed because his muddled mind was of little use.

He hadn't even noticed!

His mind was wasting away, apparently.

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Lunch was another insipid hot soup and more bread. Sherlock was glad it was something he wouldn't have too hard a time keeping down, but the two big revelations of the day had spoiled his appetite.

Although the voices in the hall were low and sounded somehow even more depressed than yesterday, Sherlock's senses were once more giving him grief. The noises of cutlery on dishes, the clinking of porcelain on porcelain and the low murmur were hard to handle.

He cringed repeatedly when a particularly loud incident occurred, the sounds drilling into his brain, causing a headache and lowering his ability to be patient by the minute.

The distress about the newly learned facts worsened his sensory issues profoundly. Nothing - not the walk, the chess game, or the idle time during the meal - had resulted in any productive thinking about the problems.

Even after spending quite some time on analysing it, he hadn't solved the name thing, yet. The only one he remembered that called him Greenberg was Dr Rubenstein. The doctor had used the name so often during their first and only meeting it was extraordinary. The nagging feeling that the two names were essential in solving how to escape the mental incarceration made it extremely frustrating. His ability to think was additionally clouded by his sensory issues.

He felt on edge. His smelly clothes and the brute soap used to clean them were adding to the problem.

He wanted to return to his room to think, but couldn't.

He was denied even that bit of a refuge.

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1 Actual number of patient-toilet ratio from a real Victorian asylum, and there was one bath for 25 patients.

2 Back then cigarettes were advertised to be good for health, even heal lung issues. Brands could tell whatever lies they wanted to advertise and they were especially fond of using doctors for cigarette promotion.

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If anyone wants to see Mandolins at work (with guitars in this case):

watch?v=_0q0F7VHhBg

I learned to play the mandolin in my early teens and that made it a lot easier to learn the violin later..

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Many thanks to PipMer for beta-ing this chapter!