I slowly blunder my way towards consciousness and groan as I acknowledge the searing pain inside my head. I open my eyes, squinting at the bright morning light that comes through the windows, and quickly shut them as the pain in my head increases rapidly. With my eyes half open, I shuffle my way over to the full length window and hastily pull the moth eaten curtains over to subdue the light. Now able to open my eyes fully, I begin to walk from my messy bedroom into the living room but I make it as far as my door before I'm forced onto my hands and knees as an unbearable wave of nausea grips me. I can feel the vomit rising in my throat but i swallow it and breathe deeply.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up.

I repeat the line over and over to myself until I feel my body returning to normal. It takes me several attempts to rise to my feet as the room spins around me, and my own footsteps are deafening as I stagger into the kitchen. I make to reach for a glass of water but find I'm unable to grasp it. There are now two glasses in front of me, with two hands trying to pick them up in synchronisation. I hear the door open to the apartment and wince as it shuts over. I fumble to grasp the handle of the drawer and it takes several precious seconds to draw out my gun. Ungracefully and noisy, I trip into the living room to see a familiar figure standing with their back to me.

Jim Moriarty.

I realise that I can rid myself of his teasing and blackmail there and then. It's the quickest decision I've made all morning, as I raise the gun. My hands are shaking with fear and adrenaline, and the sweat causes me to nearly drop my weapon. I blink, hard and take a breath. My fingers close around the trigger and the firing of the gun deafens me, and throws me backwards due to my poor balance.

My thoughts are reeling as I fall to the floor, overcome by the sudden onset of nausea and exhaustion from killing my enemy. As I try, weakly, to fight the pull of unconsciousness, I hear Mrs Hudson grumbling as she steps up the stairs. She gasps as she views the sight set before her, and then everything goes black.

I wake up on a cold, hard bench in a room surrounded by dull concrete walls, shivering as a cool draft breathes around me. The small rooms spins for a few minutes after I sit up, but I'm pleasantly surprised to find that my head no longer hurts me. I sit for a few more minutes inhaling deeply before slowly holding my hand in front of me - it's shaking, as I expected. I sigh as I pull myself up into a standing position, and use the walls to guide me towards the door. It's no more than a few feet away, but my balance has been compromised since I started the drugs. I reach the bars of the heavy, and unfortunately very secure door, and rest my head on it as the room spins a little once more. I close my eyes and lose myself in my thoughts for a long time until I'm rudely interrupted.

"Oi! Freak!" a familiar voice shouts down the corridor outside the little room. Donaldson? Docherty? Donovan. That's her name. I grunt in reply. This is the last person I want to be dealing with right now. Opening my eyes, I find that she's reached my door, and has a cruel smile plastered over her face.

"We finally got you for something. You're not my problem anymore," she spits slowly and deliberately through the bars, and I feel small droplets of saliva settle on my cheeks. I clench my jaw, and count slowly to ten, trying to resist the temptation to asphyxiate her through the bars by strangling her.

I hear another set of footsteps tapping down the corridor hurriedly. Sounds like a man this time.

"Donovan, could you leave now? I'd like to have a few words with Sherlock alone."

I know who this is.

"Hi, Geoff!" I blurt out.

The man sighs, and shakes his head. "Sherlock, I'm not in the mood. My name is Greg Lestrade, and you know it."

I narrow my eyes and nod slowly.

"Sorry."

"It's all right, I know it's not your fault." He mumbles. He looks exhausted as he tries to stifle a yawn.

"It is my fault, and you know that." I retort, annoyed at his dismissal. "Why am I in here anyway? I caught your criminal, didn't I do you a favour?"

At this, Lestrade's eyes widen.

"You-you mean..." He stutters and then falls silent, as his face pales.

"What?!" This is frustrating. "I removed James Moriarty from your wanted list, did I not?"

All the Detective Inspector can do is shake his head in disbelief.

"Sherlock... When was the last time you used... You know, a needle?" He mutters quietly, leaning in towards me.

I roll my eyes.

"There's no need for you to try to be subtle about it, Gavin, I think everyone knows about my drug habits around here. And in reply to your question, I don't know. How long have I been here?"

"Ehhh four days you've been out cold for, it's Tuesday. We brought you in here on Saturday morning after you had a once-over at the hospital. You slept the whole time." He tries to sound confident in his reply but his voice is nearly a whisper by the end of it.

"Then I last used a needle as you call it, at three-thirty-five on Friday afternoon." I reply, my tone is unintentionally clipped but I'm beginning to lose patience with him.

"S-sherlock, I need to go... I'll see you..." My sort-of friend utters, nearly inaudibly as he hurries away.

I retreat to the back of my room – my cell – and sit on the bench once more, steepling my hands beneath my chin as I think. I'm not alone for long, however, as Lestrade returns shortly, this time accompanied by my brother.

"Mycroft." I say plainly.

He nods in reply.

Lestrade interjects, "Sherlock, we're going to move you to an interview booth, if that's okay... I mean, as long as you're not hungry or anything."

"Why would I be hungry?" I retort icily.

"Now, now, brother. You haven't eaten in four days. Longer presumably, given your very poor physical state." Mycroft says warningly.

I sigh in defeat, too weak to fight him.

"Only if you leave me to go by myself."

Lestrade looks worriedly at my brother. Mycroft rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"Do we have to force feed you? Can't have you dying on us when you're a suspect."

"Suspect?! What on earth for?" I shout at the two men in disbelief. "I . KILLED. MORIARTY. What more could you want?!"

My brother sighs, almost sadly as he rubs his forehead. Turning to Lestrade, he mutters.

"He really has no idea what he's done."

Lestrade eyes me, his face a picture of both disapproval and sympathy. The two men turn and leave my cell in silence, leaving me with very little evidence as to what has happened.