„Alone protects me..." As he throw his coat on, those words echoed in his head. Only then he noticed he was shivering, even though it was a warm night in August. He crossed his arms, wrapping himself a bit tighter. Everything was calm. And so oddly quiet, almost like London was asleep. He could still hear the music from the inside, but it was getting quieter and quieter as he was walking away. When he reached the road, the only thing he could hear were his own steps, making a quiet thumps against the cold asphalt.
Empty. Streets were empty and he felt empty.
But it wasn't a new feeling, that horrible emptiness between his lungs. It wasn't in his heart, no. It was placed right in the middle of his chest, where his ribs collided. The strongest and the most terrifying emotion he have ever felt. If he had to describe it, he would say that it felt like a mixture of all those feelings he have avoided his whole life. Pain, heartbreak, sadness, loneliness... all that tied into a knot and put inside him.
As he caught sight of an black car slowing down in the desertet street, he wawed his hand. He have opened the door, then changed his mind. „Nevermind." He said to a cabbie, swallowing hard. A cabbie grunted something and drow away. He took a deep breath, then turned around. Walking quickly, he made his way through the town.
About an hour later, he found himself under a gray bridge. It was in that part of the town which exuded with poverty and squalor and it was exactly the place he needed at the moment. He didn't wait for a long time. In only a few minutes, a black siluette approached him.
„I expected you tonight." A stranger in a hoodie murmured quietly.
„Did you?" Sherlock Holmes replied calmly. „Why?"
„Your brother called. Told me I'm dead if I sell you anything."
„Typical." The detective said with a sigh. „Do you have it?"
„Yes."
„Well?"
The homless man made no move.
„You won't die." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.
„If he finds out..."
„He won't." Sherlock replied. After a long moment of thinking, the dealer handed a small package to Sherlock. As soon as he recieved a pile of money, he turned away, counting money as he quickly walked away.
Once again that evening, Sherlock Holmes was all alone.
He opened the door, inhaling the familiar smell of 221B. A frown crossed his face as the memories flooded back. He swallowed hard and took off his coat, putting it on the rack. It was cold in there, but it was cold anywhere he went that day anyway. Avoiding to look at the certain chair, Sherlock quickly made a way through the living room into the kitchen. It was unusual, the way things made him feel. They were just objects, just material, physical items... why did they have to make him feel so empty?
Slowly and carefully, he prepared his drugs. It didn't take him long, even though he didn't do it in a long time.
He went back into the living room and sat down on the floor, leaning against his black sofa. He rolled his sleeve up, discovering visible blue veins in a contrast with pale and soft texture of his skin. Holding the syringe at a 45 degree angle, he slowly sticked it into the vein on the inner side of his elbow. Gently letting the needle fall back, in almost horizontal position, he slided it further into the vein. While holding the needle steady inside the vein, he pulled back on the plunger and watched as his own, dark and red blood got drawn up into the syringe. He pushed dope slowly into his vein and moaned.
It all came back.
Relief. Safety. Warmth.
And finally, euphoria.
He felt alive again.
It didn't last long though. A few hours after, Sherlock Holmes fainted, collapsing into the chair he avoided to look at that whole evening. He was floating somewhere between imagination and reality. He saw himself entering his mind palace, then falling down from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, then on the streets of London. „Don't get involved." A voice in his mind said. He knew that voice. It was so familiar... so close. „Don't get involved." Sherlock repeated aloud, focusing on the sound of the soft voice in his brain.
„But you did, didn't you? You didn't listen. You never listen." Jim Moriarty's voice was now echoing in his head.
Sherlock felt so weak. His whole body was pulsing, radiating with head. He had to get out.
„Stop." He said to Moriarty. He was again in that chamber, sprawled on the floor like a puppet. The black eyes were staring at him. Chained up reflection. Moriarty was nothing else but that. The dark side of Sherlock. His shadow. The creature he would have become if he didn't meet... didn't meet...
„Can't even say his name?" Moriaty asked. „His name is JOHNNNN, Sherlock! Why don't you say it?"
„Stop." Sherlock said quietly. „Stop it."
„John, John, JOHN! Say it!"
„Please." He begged. He was on his knees, he could feel tears in his tired eyes and he didn't want anything else, but to die. To disappear, but this time without coming back.
„You knew you shouldn't get involved." A cold voice drawled against his ears. „But you just neveeeer listen. Why don't you listen, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked quietly, then screamed from the top of his lungs. „WHY?!"
„I-I don't know." Sherlock replied, curling himself into a fetal position.
„Because you are WEAK! You are pathetic. You are ordinary, Sherlock." He continued. He was standing so close to Sherlock, he could feel his cold breath on his face. „You didn't learn anything. It hurts now, doesn't it? It hurts so much you want to rip your chest open and take your heart out. Getting shot didn't hurt this much, did it? Not even getting shot by her... Mary Morstan. He have chosen her, not you. After everything, he still doesn't love you. Isn't that sad, Sherlock?"
„S-stop it." Sherlock moaned. His whole body was hurting. Pressing his palms against his eyes, he tried to stop tears from rolling down his cheeks.
„Me? I'm just a product of your mind. I'm irrelevant. It's all about you, Sherlock. You want to suffer. You want to feel the pain. Or to feel anything really. I mean, lately you're just feeling so empty, don't you? Like there are no feelings at all, except for that familiar pain that just won't leave you. You want me here. If you didn't, you could just close up your mind palace... and all of this would stop."
„Yes. Close the mind palace." His eyes flew open. „I have to close it."
„But that means you're going back to that apartment." Moriarty said lazily. „Where everything reminds you of – what's his name again, Sherlock?"
„John..." Sherlock whispered softly as he closed his mind palace up.
He was back in 221B.
He body was trembling, even though he was covered in sweat. Every part of him was screaming in pain. He tried to get up, but he couldn't. His body was aching. Everything was aching. After breathing deeply for a few moments, doing his best not to faint again, he tried once more. This time he pulled himself up, on his shaking legs.
Slowly and staggering, he made his way to the bathroom. As soon as he got there, he collapsed to the floor, vomitting uncontrolably. In a strange way, it have made him feel better. Sure that there's nothing more to threw up, Sherlock got up. He brushed his teeth, then washed his face. After doing that, he finally took a courage to look at the mirror. His hair was all messy, his face pale like a sheet and his eyes swollen, with red circles around them and dilated, black pupils. Only then he noticed that he was still wearing the suit he wore to the wedding. His tied was untied ans sloppily placed around his neck, his shirt creased and pulled out of his paints. His fingers were shaking slightly as he tried to straighten it up a bit. He quickly gave up though.
His physical appearance was for at least once a mirrored reflection of how he felt from the inside. He looked up again, looking himself into those sad, empty, gray eyes. Not knowing better, he assumed it was the color of the heartbreak. He was shaking again, barely standing on his own legs. His vision was blured from the tears that started to fill his eyes. Without knowing when, why or how did it happen, he suddenly realized his fingers were covered in blood. Then he saw tiny pieces of glass. It took him a while to finally notice horrible pain, pulsating in his hand. He broke the mirror? He rised his head. He did. He broke it with his own weak, shaking hands. It was painfully beautiful – with a traces of his own blood between hollows in glass.
„YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO LEAVE!" Sherlock Holmes screamed from the top of his lungs. Then he collapsed, tears rolling down his cheeks.