Sherlock couldn't fall back to sleep after that. He was frightened. This wasn't him. He'd never experienced anything like this throughout his entire life. The touch of Jim's hand to his cheek. The feeling of his lips brushing against his own. It had all felt so real. Sherlock continued to run his fingers over his lips, a shudder travelling through his body as he remember the feel of the kiss. It made him feel odd. He ran a hand through his hair a few times, shaking them out in frustration, his fingers getting tangled in the curls. He stood up, walking into the sitting room and beginning to pace around the room. He wasn't sure how long he was soing it for, but apparently it was a rather long time because John came down, stopping him in the middle of it, and instead of his being dark outside like it had been when he first went into the room, it was now bright and filled with sunlight.

"You're going to wear a hole into the floor if you keep pacing like that." John laughed, before looking Sherlock over. "You look awful. What happened?"

Sherlock simply shook his head and shut his eyes, beginning to pace again. John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, putting on the keetle. Like John would ever know what was happening to him. Wait...Yes he could! John had experience with things like this. With things have to do with sentimental feelings. No. Could that really be what this was about? Sentiment? Towards Jim Moriarty? Yes he had admitted to missing him, but that was different, wasn't it? Sherlock couldn't understand any of this. His head was starting to ache and the more he paced the bigger the ache grew until all he could think about was the pain. He stopped pacing and moved to sit down in his chair. He closed his eyes and he felt his skin begin to itch, false tingles began to spread over his body and in the back of his head he felt it. The itch. It was similar to the feeling he had whenever he was left for a long enough amount of time without a case. The need growing inside of him for it. Cocaine. He knew he shouldn't, that it would be a mistake later on, but for now, he knew it would make him feel better. Make him more alert. His eyes flicked between his coat and John. He stood up quickly and ran into his room, changing into a different set of clothes, beore slipping on his jacket.

"Where are you going?" John shouted from the kitchen.

"Out!" Sherlock responded, running out of the flat and down onto the street.

He looked around in both directions, moving quickly to the left. It shouldn't be that hard to find it. Though Sherlock couldn't be entirely sure. It had been a long time since he'd taken cocaine. The itch had never been this bad. Never had it been so strong and so potent. Sherlock made his way down to Camden Street, knowing that there must be somebody down there who would have what he needed. Sherlock walked through the crowds of people, shopping and picking up stupid little trinkets that they would use once and then abandon. Finally, he found it. Sherlock remembered going here when he had been younger. An abandoned flat off of Camden street where an old dealer of Sherlock's did most of his work, if you could really call it that. Sherlock slipped inside of the old building, shutting the door behind him as he made his way up the creaking steps. Sherlock remembered that there was a hole in the 4th step and he quickly stepped over it, before running up the rest of the stairs. Upon entering the small flat, Sherlock realized that nothing had changed. The room was still a dull blue colour, with the paint peeling off the wall and the floorboards were a washed out dark brown that was splintering up towards the ceiling. There were only two windows in the flat that peered down into Camden Market. However, the one difference from Sherlock's memories and the present, was the man sitting in the corner of the flat. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a dark black colour that contrasted with the paleness of his hands that were drumming almost nervously against his knee caps. He had a black hood pulled up over his head and the sleeves of the sweater pulled up around his elbows. The man looked over, but Sherlock was unable to see his face, but he hardly cared. The man stood up and walked over to Sherlock, holding a syringe in his hand. No words were exchanged between them. Sherlock simply rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, holding it out to the other man. The man stepped closer and he reached out to wrap a rubber band around Sherlock's arm. He flicked the needle three times and slowly pressed it into Sherlock's vein with extreme precision. Sherlock allowed his eyes to flutter shut as he felt the cocaine soloution being injected into his veins. The effect was instantenous. He felt the rush and he suddenly became alert, making note of everything around him, his mind picking up every aspect of the room and the man infront of him, despite the fact that he still couldn't see him. He feels the needle being pulled out of his skin and he fell back against the wall, allowing his eyes to fall shut. He began to ramble, his words jumbled and fast and the man came up to him, placing a single finger over his lips.

"Hush." the man's voice seemed to ring in Sherlock's ears and it sounded so familiar to him, yet he couldn't place it.

Sherlock looked up at the man as he placed the finger over his lips and he closed his mouth. His mind was still spinning and he was still unable to see the man's face, but for some reason that didn't matter to him still. Sherlock reached a hand down into his pocket to pull out the money he had in order to pay for the cocaine, but the man simply stopped his hand just as it was about to pull out the money. Sherlock was confused, and his face conveyed that expression quite clearly, but the man simply laughed.

"So pathetic. So oblivious, so naive. You're going to die again if you keep this up." the man said, running his hand through Sherlock's hair, before turning and leaving the flat.

Sherlock watched the man leave, trying to go after him. How did he know that he had died? Who was this man? Sherlock stood up quickly and moved to run after him, but as soon as he stood up, he felt light headed. The world around him began to spin and he fell onto the floor, the world around him slowly turning black.

When Sherlock next awoke, he was surrounded by white. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, and felt a slightly painful tug on his arm. He looked over and noticed that it was attatched to an intravenous tube. Once his eyes cleared a bit more, he looked around the room and saw John, Lestrade, and Mycroft sitting around the bed. None of them looked particulary pleased.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking, Sherlock?" John shouted.

"I recommend that you not speak so loudly, Dr. Watson. My brother here is still recovering."

"It's his fault he's in here in the first place." Lestrade stated. "I can't believe he's even alive! He jumped off a building and he lived!"

"Did you really think I would die, Detective Inspector? You really shouldn't doubt me." Sherlock laughed slightly.

"This isn't humourous, Sherlock. The first time you leave the flat since you've come back from being dead and you go out and buy drugs. You were clean, Sherlock! Wait...you were clean, right?" John asked.

"I was clean. I can't explain to you why I did it, nor do I have any reason to. It is none of your business." Sherlock responded.

"Whoever gave you the drug, Brother, also slipped a sedative into it." Mycroft stated.

"Did they? Well, that's rather interesting. Though the man did know about the fall." Sherlock answered.

"Who was he?" John asked.

"I didn't see him. I was more focused on the cocaine than the person giving it to me." Sherlock said, glaring at John.

"Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector, would you mind if I had a word with my brother alone?" Mycroft asked, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

They both simply nodded and got up to leave the hospital room. Sherlock watched them leave and Sherlock looked back over to Mycroft and scowled. He looked back down to focus on what he was wearing, one of those annoyingly white hospital gowns and he became rather annoyed by it.

"Do you think you could get me some other clothes? These are tedious and uncomfortable." Sherlock said in distaste.

"No. I have some information to share with you, Brother. However, we needed privacy because I do not want DI Lestrade or Dr. Watson to influence your decision on how we are going to approach the matter at hand."

"I'm listening." Sherlock responded.

"The death of James Moriarty had been confirmed upon finding his body on top of St. Bartholowmew's hospital, shortly after your body had been discovered and placed in the morgue. I had them run every test done upon it and all came back positive in confirming that it was indeed Moriarty. For three years, none of us suspected anything. Not until Dr. Watson told me of your...paranoid tendencies involving dreams with James Moriarty. Again, I turned out with nothing. Until shortly after you were brought here." Mycroft said.

"What? What was it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up and leaning towards Mycroft.

Mycroft pulled his phone out of the inner pocket of his suit and he handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock opened it up and looked at the messages that appeared in his phone. One appeared from a blocked number.

I've missed playing these games, Ice Man. Sherlock will wake up soon. Tell him I've missed him so much since he died. I'm back, and the games beginning. JM xx

"James Moriarty is still alive."