As soon as he felt the drugs start to work, he knew he'd used too much. His head began to ache, pounding to the beat of the music floating up from the club below, his heart beating hard and fast. He felt his blood pressure rising, knew he'd made a mistake, and—
Something broke like a fever hitting. His mind wasn't part of his aching body. He was untethered again, floating again, and even though part of him reminded him he'd been indescribably stupid, he was enjoying it. The music from below had distorted and syncopated, muffling slightly as it weaved its way through the maze of his ears, triggering spark after spark of vivid reds and purples in his vision.
There were arms wrapped around him, not in an embrace as such, but simply touching his shoulders, delicately, feather-light almost. He half-liked it, half-hated it. It reminded him of someone. Someone he never wanted to see again and likely never would.
So you did kill yourself after all, a soft voice whispered. That voice. His voice. Moriarty's voice.
"Wh?" He found himself unable to move, struggling to breathe, staring straight ahead with a contented emptiness. He'd filled the shell holding his pain and loneliness with a simple little chemical, with seventeen carbon atoms, twenty-one hydrogen atoms, four oxygen atoms and a solitary nitrogen.
Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you.
He was soaked with sweat, not from fear, but from overdose. Though, wait one moment, he was afraid. Afraid Moriarty was right, afraid he'd killed himself with his little escape, afraid he'd never see London again, afraid of how Mycroft would take this and wondering what his funeral—his real funeral—would be like.
He couldn't move. Blackness was closing in as the tender touch persisted, all other sensations fading. No!
Goodnight, sweet prince.