Sherlock hunched against an alley wall in a place he thought must be London, shivering convulsively, clawing at his own brain to bring what he saw in line with what he knew MUST be. The headache he had seemed to have forever blurred his vision until everything took on a dream-like quality. He started back violently as a tiny woman with wings floated out from a pub talking with someone he could just barely categorize as human but dressed in outlandish Medieval armor and carrying matching weaponry. That could not be right, it was not LOGICAL. He felt the growl in in his throat but could not really hear himself over the incredible dinning ring in his ears. Sweat drooled out of his pores, soaking his clothing until he felt as if he had spent an hour in a molasses slow rain and the shivering intensified until he had to clench his fists close to his chest to avoid knocking something and making noise in this place that was but could not be.
That gesture triggered some memories he thought he had deleted to wind their way out of the dungeon of his mind palace. He knew these feelings, some of them, the sweat, the shaking, headache, starting violently; it all fit. He was in withdrawal, he must be, and though he did not remember taking any drugs he knew from past experience that if he had been high long enough he would not. That had caused some not actually voluntary 'deletions' in past days. What had he taken? A hallucinogen? Not his usual choice and it was useless when he was supposed to be dismantling Moriarty's 'consulting service'. John would be so angry.
John
His knees buckled and he practically fell as the vision of his best friend's, his only friend's face appeared in front of his eyes; real enough Sherlock half raised one hand to touch. Then he flinched as the visionary (hallucinatory?) John 's face folded into elegantly expressive line of disappointment and disgust. He moaned, wanting to tell John this wasn't his fault, the world had gone mad. But a head shake and an agonizing throb of his head dispelled the vision. John wasn't here, couldn't be here. He was looking for John, his John who would certainly be able to explain things so they made sense.
"I'm sorry." He felt the words on his lips but still could not hear himself although at unexpected intervals sharp noises, metal on metal, languages made up of clicks or growls, ripped through him offending his senses over and over. He shouldn't have done this, couldn't have done this! He was traveling to save John. He had … fallen to save his John. This weakness that had crept over his transport could not be allowed.
But he had, he must have, because nothing that he saw could be real. This. Was. London. He knew it in some way that he could not encompass in words. The streets were right mostly, though the architecture was older, Elizabethan? But with wild deviations that his mind could not bear when he found them. Some seemed to be temples that glowed with a soft light that was neither electrical nor chemical in origin. Some tower type buildings that should not be able to stand up under their own weight! Why could no one see?! Again he felt his mind clawing at his senses demanding data that had some logical form.
Footfalls approaching, determined strides, like a constable but with an oddly ringing metallic note. Sherlock pressed himself into shadows and dropped his head down to his chest to meld better with them. The slow blossoming light banished his safe covering and he started up looking wild eyed at the three figures approaching him with guarded but determined expressions. Sherlock could do nothing stare at the ball of silvery light, like a tiny moon actually hovering into the alley and moving directly towards him. It must be a drug, it must be! Maybe he hadn't actually taken any, maybe it had been introduced into his system by an outside force, like at Baskerville. A groan ripped from his body and he knew it formed a name, the last safe concept in his torn and tattered brain. "John! John Watson!"
He was wildly trying to find an escape and praying to a deity he had never actually believed in that John would find him soon when finally heard words over the crashing din in his head. "Ardric, Talien, cut off the other end." He was caught, John must find him.
He turned to dash away, hopefully towards his friend, his *soldier*, when two enormous hands caught his shoulders and lifted him up. His eyes started out of his head, his last thoughts of control and escape disintegrated by the fact that what was holding him simply could, not, exist!
Skin more like hide covered the enormous hands that held his shoulders. They were a man's shoulders but massive, as was the neck that supported the head of a bull who somehow had his eyes to the front of his muzzle. This could not be real, could not! His body practically convulsed as he tried to free himself and screamed the only words his mind knew anymore. "John! John help me!"
Behind him the voice he had heard first dimly penetrated even as he struggled, "Serafina, preliminary diagnosis."
Another, softer voice, a woman's , "Gate sickness, Commander. He's a refugee as I thought, but there is something else. It's making it hard to get a clear read on him."
"Calm him down" This time the voice came from the apparition that held him. "He is going to hurt himself if he struggles much longer. I can barely hold him as it is."
Sherlock swung his arms around, fending off a needle that he knew was coming, now keening his friends name. "Joooohn! I'm sorry! Help me. JOHN WATSON!" But the last thing he knew was a simple deft touch and an invocation in ancient Greek that his mind redundantly translated, "Pallas Athene, wisdom's daughter, cover this suffering soul with the shadow of your shield, wrap him in the peace of your mantle, and with your wisdom bid him sleep."