*I was literally gaping at my e-mail inbox the other day because there were so many notices of reviews and favs...thank you very much!

I'd like to just use this place to quickly reply to some of the wonderful comments and questions froI've recieved from the previous chapter, that prompted me to think about some things in the story I haven't noticed myself.

DreamBrother & eohippus - Thank you for such a generous and thorough review! I'm really, really flattered!

Mitaya - Oh no, plot hole! Thank you for pointing that out :0 To be honest I have no idea how to play it out. It might make some sense to say that John and Sherlock reached a mutual agreement to avoid any kind of drug whatsoever. I'm really sorry, I'm pretty sure it's not medically accurate but I hope it works in the story for you X(

gaap237- My original plan was to keep Lestrade only in Sherlock's flashback sequence but now that you mentioned it, I might try to work him into the story as well :)

A couple more chapters to go! Hope you enjoy this one as much as the others, and thanks again for all the wonderful reviews.

After Sherlock took the shower and dried himself, John tried to make Sherlock eat something but the detective just shook his head. He insisted that he wasn't hungry but John knew that Sherlock's brain was playing a trick on him. Sherlock's body was screaming for nutrition. Lack of appetite was one of the major symptoms. Things were going to get worse from here so this was the only chance John had to make Sherlock get some food. After a few minutes of reasoning, Sherlock grew tired of arguing and gave in. He reluctantly sipped the chicken soup John had prepared for him.

"It's not as good as Mrs. Hudson's but this would do." John shrugged. Sherlock didn't utter a single word as he ate. Beads of sweat formed around his neck and forehead. Halfway through the plate, Sherlock suddenly shoved the soup bowl at John and flew out of the room. John hurried after him and found the poor man kneeling in front of the toilet dry heaving violently. John kneeled beside him and rubbed his back but Sherlock pushed him away. John didn't protest and just took a step back and supervised the reversing process. After a few moments, Sherlock slumped against the bath tub and placed his hand over his face and covered his eyes. His hands were shaking violently and sweat ran down along Sherlock's neck. He was so pale, that John could clearly see the blue veins on his hands and neck. John also spotted a fresh gash on Sherlock's knuckle. He knelt in front of Sherlock and waited for him to catch his breath.

"I guess we'll have to go with intravenous feeding then." John murmured. Sherlock nodded in agreement. It's been five days since Sherlock kept anything down in his stomach for proper digestion. John gently reached for Sherlock's head and pressed lightly against his neck. He had an enlarged thyroid gland. It was a clear sign of malnutrition. John massaged Sherlock's trembling, clammy, long fingers and asked gently,

"Any numbness?"

"Yes." Sherlock murmured with his eyes unfocused and pupils dilated. The light blue eyes were dimmed and looked almost grey to John. Sherlock wretched again but he managed to keep his digestives down.

"Are there any chest pains?" Sherlock nodded.

"Cold?"

"Very."

"What happened to this?" John indicated the gash. The cut was deeper than he thought when he saw it up close. He turned to the cabinet to get a band aid. Sherlock pressed against the rim of the bathtub and lifted himself up. John turned back to Sherlock and asked for his hand but Sherlock shook his head and swayed toward his bedroom.

"But-"

"It's just a cut." Sherlock grumbled. There was slight tone of shame in Sherlock's voice. Letting John massage his hands must have made Sherlock feel even weaker and vulnerable. The more John helped Sherlock, the more he hurt his dignity and pride. Receiving a band aid for a cut was out of the question. John pursed his lips and pocketed the band aid and followed the taller man silently. As soon as Sherlock was back in soundly in his bed, John checked his blood pressure. It was too high. John hurried to his room and got several stocks of intravenous infusions. He hurried beside Sherlock and asked for his arm. Sherlock obeyed silently and presented his dangerously thin, pale arm. John tried to keep a straight face as he cradled the fragile limb and inserted the needle.

Sherlock's heart pounded so hard that his chest ached. He can still taste the sourness in his mouth. It's been 36 hours. Halfway through and he knew the last half was going to be a bumpier ride. He closed his eyes. White sparks erupted behind his eye lids and it stung. He opened his eyes with a start but the pain didn't go away. Instead, it started to grow inside him and pound against his eyes violently. Sherlock breathed through his nose heavily and pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

"You okay?"

"Migraines." Sherlock muttered. John turned off the lamp light. "Thanks." He said but Sherlock couldn't hide the irritation in his voice. The pain was becoming unbearable. If it continued any longer, Sherlock could swear that his eyes were going to pop. He suppressed a moan through his gritted teeth. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder worryingly but it didn't help at all. Jim…Jim…Jim…

"…Jim" Sherlock muttered out loud without noticing. The hand on Sherlock's shoulder tensed for a fraction of a second and then it slid away. Sherlock's left hand twitched and grasped at John's wrist. The grip was so tight and Sherlock's nails dug sharply into John's skin. John froze.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock realized what he was doing and let go with a start. He stared up a John with slightly widened eyes. His brows were furrowed in pain, but other facial expression showed a sign of surprise. He blinked and turned away.

"…You don't need to stay beside me all the time John. I know you want to rest." He murmured through his gritted teeth and massaged his eye lids.

"It's okay." John started to say but he realized that this was Sherlock's way of saying "Thank you for your help but please leave me alone for the moment." John closed his mouth and nodded. He slipped out of the room and closed the door silently behind him.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes but his eyelids didn't budge. He was biting on his lips so hard that it was starting to bleed. He groaned to himself. He wanted to ram his head against the wall but he didn't have the strength to lift himself up. Sherlock was exhausted but he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to go back there again, but the pain was so immense that he had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness. That was the only way he could cope with the pain.

…

The water was already waist high. The majority of the facility was enveloped in darkness and only a few lights were functioning properly. Sherlock climbed on top of one of the aligned drawers and looked down into the water. He could faintly see his own reflection floating among the darkness. It was pale, ghastly and above all young. In fact, he was too young. Sherlock Holmes was looking at the reflection of his child self. Sherlock took a step back in surprise. The reflection in the water did the same. He looked down at his hands. They were the size of an adult's. He looked at his feet. He was wearing his usual trousers and leather shoes. He looked back at the water. Little Sherlock was staring right back at him. Sherlock shook his head and took another step back. Before he knew it, his foot slipped off the edge of the drawer and he plunged back first into the ice cold, pitch black water.

Everyone loved him. He was one of the most popular teachers in school. Being in Mr. Dalton's class was the best thing that could happen to a kid in this school, yet there was one child who feared him; Sherlock Holmes. By the age of ten, Sherlock had learned that things are not always how they seemed to be. It was a lesson anyone would learn as they came of age, but Sherlock learned it too quickly. The Holmes brothers saw everything. Their sharp eyes spotted even the most well hidden ugly truth of real life with one glance of their surroundings. Mycroft knew how to hide his knowledge. Sherlock was a bit clumsier than his older brother and he often slipped up. His attitude toward Mr. Dalton was a good example.

Everyone tugged at the jolly teacher's sleeves during recess. Mr. Dalton's wide grin, booming laughter and the warm enveloping arms attracted all the kids. Sherlock however, refused to go near the man and lurked in the corner of the playground. Sherlock wasn't a shy boy. If you interviewed the other teachers in his primary school, they would all remark that Mycroft was the rather shy content one and Sherlock was the out spoken energetic one, but Sherlock was alarmingly quiet and withdrawn during his year in Mr. Dalton's class.

What they all failed to see was that behind Mr. Dalton's bright smiles was another truth. Sometimes Sherlock even wondered how people failed to notice this crucial fact. Perhaps they saw it too, but they refused to believe it. Or perhaps they saw it too but they just don't observe it. The moment he and Mycroft laid eyes on that man, they knew that he was an incredibly heavy drinker and had a rather long history of inflicting domestic abuse to both his wife and son. It was the first true sadist that Sherlock had ever met. He could imagine Mr. Dalton shoving his wife violently against the wall, the numerous bruises and burns he had inflicted with those hands… and that same hand was holding the hands of his classmate. Mycroft simply pressed his index fingers to his lips and nodded at Sherlock. Then he ran off to his own class. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, as he wondered how he was going to cope with this dangerous teacher for a whole year.

"Sherlock, you alright there?" It was the first week in his class when Sherlock found Mr. Dalton crouching in front of him after school. He was waiting for his brother at the school entrance. Sherlock looked up with a look of surprise. The moment he saw the teacher's face staring right back at him, Sherlock gripped his bag tightly and drew his lips into a straight line. Mr. Dalton reached forward to hold Sherlock's shoulder but the boy cowered away. Stupid. He told himself but it was too late. An alarmed look flashed in Mr. Dalton's dark green eyes. Now he knows that I know. Sherlock looked down at his foot. Mr. Dalton straightened up and opened his mouth to say something but before he could utter a single word, his brother called out from behind them,

"Sherlock." They both looked up to find Mycroft smiling back. If Sherlock didn't know Mycroft better, he would have thought that his brother knew nothing, but there was a certain twinkle in his eyes that only Sherlock knew. His brother had just saved his neck.

After that incident, Mr. Dalton never approached Sherlock when he was alone. Half of him probably feared Sherlock, and another half probably hated the sharp kid. He occasionally called on Sherlock during class and Sherlock would answer any question betraying as little emotion as possible. No one other than his teacher knew the reason to why Sherlock was being so quiet. Soon, people started calling him "freak". The more Sherlock kept his emotions to himself, the more people drew away from him. Mr. Dalton, of course, offered no help to Sherlock concerning this problem. The more Sherlock saw, the more he feared. He saw everything. Nothing was innocent in Sherlock's eyes anymore. He was still eight when this happened. Sherlock despised his curse.

John visited Sherlock's room after leaving him for thirty minutes. The detective was sound asleep. He was sweating heavily and he flinched in his sleep once a while but it was good that Sherlock at least had no signs of insomnia so far. John laid his eyes on the gash on Sherlock's hand. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out the bandage. He gently cradled the hand and applied it to the cut. Then, he carefully tucked the hand back under the sheets.

Sherlock felt a hand hold him as he walked out of school. He thought it was Mycroft at first but it was too big. He looked up to see Jim smiling back down at him. Sherlock's mouth hung open for a second. His head was bursting with questions, but before he could ask anything, Jim tugged gently at Sherlock and the two treaded away from the school. The two walked in silence. Sherlock felt unnaturally calm, sound, and above all safe. A smile broke onto his face. Suddenly, he didn't see anything anymore. He couldn't make out any deductions from the people passing by him. He didn't have to think. He was safe from all the truth. However, this moment of bliss lasted only for a few minutes. A jolt ran down Sherlock's spine and everything became dark. The sun was gone, the familiar smell of the playground was gone, and Jim was gone. Sherlock looked around. He was his adult self again and he was gasping for air. He was back in his flooding mind palace. The water was shoulder high and papers were floating everywhere around him. He grabbed one of the soaking file that was floating lazily past him. He looked at the title. Timothy Dalton. He rolled the half soaked file in his hands and threw it as far away as possible and he screamed.

…

Sherlock bolted upright and yanked the IV from his arm. He stumbled out of his bedroom and went to the shower room. He slapped steaming hot water on his face frantically. Why did he have to see that dream? Why did he still remember him in the first place? He cursed his brain for letting him see all that. Then, he remembered the reassuring grip in his hand. Jim. He looked up at the mirror and froze. He gawked at his horrid demeanor. His face was so sunken and aged that Sherlock was surprised that he was still alive. He felt miserable, lost and useless. The consulting detective hung his head over the sink and tried to clear his head but a strange buzzing noise erupted in his ear every time he tried to concentrate. Sherlock huffed irritably and paced around the shower room. His knees ached every time he took a step but anything was better than just lying still on the bed. He looked down at the tiled floor. The lines and the squares floated up toward him and swirled around. Suddenly, Sherlock choked. He felt like he's been on a rough boat ride. He stumbled toward the toilet and heaved. Nothing came out. He slid back and collapsed on the floor. His cheeks touched the cool smooth surface. He stared blankly toward the door and stayed there for a few seconds. He could have been like that for hours if it weren't for a pair of very familiar leather shoes stepping into the shower room. Sherlock shifted his gaze upward and froze at the spot. He saw himself gazing down at him with an expressionless, cold gaze. He looked fit and healthy with his unwavering clear blue eyes, intimidating composure, and his usual dark, trim attire. Sherlock groaned to himself. It was the logical Sherlock, back to haunt him again.

"Where's Jim?" Sherlock asked weakly and tried to lift himself up from the tiled floor. The other Sherlock folded his arm and leaned against the sink.

"He's not here. He doesn't exist."

"But you're here."

The logical Sherlock smirked. God, is that how I look like when I do that? I look like a complete jerk. Sherlock thought to himself. The other Sherlock offered a hand but Sherlock slapped it away.

"I'm here to help you. You need me." The stern voice said.

"Don't try to reason with me."

"You're messed up. You're not thinking straight."

"Where's Jim?" The logical Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, don't tell me you-"

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded and grabbed his projection's shirt and pinned him to the wall. "What did you do to him?" Hatred and desperation flared in Sherlock's unfocused eyes. The other Sherlock raised his hands to show that he meant no harm.

"Don't do this to me, Sherlock. We're friends, remember? I'm here to help you." The logical Sherlock pushed against the delirious Sherlock but he refused to release his grip.

"Help? Do you know how much I've suffered because of you?" He snarled through his clenched teeth. The other Sherlock just stared back at him with those cold eyes. "I need him."

"Sherlock, Moriarty is tricking you. Fight him, you've done it before."

"I'm sick of fighting!" Sherlock roared. The logical Sherlock shoved Sherlock away.

"Stop it, Sherlock! Stop it, right now!" He roared back at him with frightening demeanor. The dark figure towered over him. Sherlock pressed his back against the sink and reached his hand behind him to grab something he could protect himself with. The logical Sherlock grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him violently. "Snap out of it."

"Shut up." Sherlock breathed and grabbed a razor from behind him.

"Moriarty is feeding you nightmares, Sherlock!"

"No, Jim's the one helping me get rid of the nightmares."

"Stop calling him like that!" The fully dressed Sherlock squeezed Sherlock's shoulders with surprisingly powerful grip. It felt like his skin was on fire. Sherlock yelled and thrashed the razor at his projection. The blade glided through the air and swiped across the other Sherlock's neck, right along the bottom of his left jaw line. It wasn't a deep cut but enough to make blood run freely down along the neckline. "You!" He exclaimed and thrust Sherlock to the side. He collided against the bath tub and hit the back of his head. The other Sherlock grabbed at Sherlock mercilessly. The blood seeped into his velvet shirt and a dark smear was growing on around the collar. Sherlock reached back and fumbled with the bathtub water. Cold water burst from the shower. The logical Sherlock pinned Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock tried to kick the man away but he was too weak and he ached all over the place. Every single muscle in his body felt like it was on fire. Sherlock squirmed and yelled in pain.

"Stop…!" He yelled but the other Sherlock didn't move. A drop of blood dripped on Sherlock's face.

"No, I'm not going to stop."

"Jim!"

"Stop calling his name!"

"Ji-" Sherlock's mouth was covered by his own bony hands and he was dragged up to his knees. The last thing he saw was his own emotionless eyes looking straight back at him, before he was lifted up and dumped into the back tub where cold water pounded on the unconscious body of Sherlock.

…

John was talking to Mrs. Hudson after his short visit to Sherlock's bedroom. She knocked on the door with her usual hoot.

"How is he doing?" She asked and handed John a basket of muffins. John thanked the land lady and offered here a cup of tea but she shook her head.

"No, I'm fine. I know you're caught up at the moment." John nodded.

"He woke up a while ago and I tried to make him eat but his body just rejects everything."

"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "It's not the flu is it?" John laughed weakly at this question. How he wished it actually was the flu.

"No," He replied. "Something nasty just got inside of him I guess." He remarked carefully. He didn't want to lie to Mrs. Hudson but he also didn't want to worry her too much. After a minute or two, Mrs. Hudson wished John luck and went back down stairs. John heard faint footsteps up stairs. Sherlock must have woken up. He poured some more water into the jar and held a freshly cleaned glass in the other hand. He treaded upstairs. He heard the noise of running shower as he opened Sherlock's bedroom door. He placed the jar and the glass down and looked at the abandoned infusion needle. He wished Sherlock would have called John to take the needle off him instead of just yanking it off himself. He swiftly changed the bed sheets. Then, John knocked at the shower door.

"Sherlock, do you have your change?" He called. He strained his ears. There was no reply. He knocked again, this time, more urgently. Perhaps he couldn't hear it over the running water. "Sherlock?" He called out. Still no reply. John frowned. His heart skipped a beat. He reached for the door knob and twisted it. It was unlocked. "Sherlock," John yelled and raced in through the door.

John's eyes widened when he saw the area. It was a complete mess. Tooth brush, towels and other toiletries were knocked off from the cabinet and were scattered across the tiled floor. John's blood drew away from his arms and legs as he saw blood smears on the white tiled floor. The shower curtain wasn't closed and cold water was running freely from the shower. John hurried toward the bath tub and his knees buckled when he saw Sherlock fully dressed and lying unconscious on the bath tub floor with a large cut on his neck. He was soaking wet and his clothes were drenched in ice cold water and smeared blood.