Sherlock left the letter on the desk so that Mycroft would easily find it the next day. He grabbed his coat, scarf, and gloves before leaving the flat and hailing a taxi. He felt calm more than anything, unafraid and accepting of his choice. He arrived at the cliffs at a quarter to midnight, drawing his coat closer to himself to shield from the biting chill. The moon and the stars illuminated enough for him to see a few feet in front of him but nothing more.

He waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep his blood circulating and himself alert. He knew by not specifying where along the cliffs he wanted to meet would give him time to be there first and prepare himself but Sherlock huffed as the time dragged by like tires through deep mud. Sherlock stuck it out and waited along the cliff line, absent of people at that time of night. The plan he made would unfold no matter how long he was forced to wait.

He was almost tempted to sit down and wait when he suddenly sensed a disturbance. No one was visible but he didn't feel like he was alone anymore. A faint whisper started chattering at the back of his head. He shrugged it off, ignoring the sound as he swept the shadows for the one that was alive. He knew he was moving, swift and invisible in the darkness, but he also knew he wouldn't show himself until he wanted to be seen.

His hair stood on end and his skin burned with the sensation of being watched. He dropped his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists in preparation for a fight if it arose. He could feel him approaching, as if they were tied together by an unseen string, and the closer he moved, the louder the voices became. They grew more and more difficult to ignore but he tried his best. If he wanted his plan to run smoothly, he needed his full attention on Moriarty. His eyes darted in every direction, trying to spot him within the thick tar of night but he failed to. He felt too exposed for his situation. Panic leaked through his calm shell until he finally caught sight of him. The single moving shadow in the hoard of darkness stepped into the silvery glow of moonlight.

The voices, which had been growing exponentially louder, exploded in his head as he sauntered into view. Moriarty looked exactly as he'd remembered him before. He cleaned up for the occasion, shaved, got a haircut, and managed to dig up a Westwood suit, all for him. His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked, stopping a few feet in front of the detective. A toothy, shark-like grin stretched across his face that was devoid of anything resembling happiness. It appeared to be a crack carved out of insanity.

His visage caused the voices to scream in his head, a loud, frantic sound that said nothing in a human language. They merged, speaking simultaneously, but he couldn't pick out any actual words. He glanced up at Moriarty; he needed to keep his attention on him, but he didn't appear to be paying attention to Sherlock. His grin slowly morphed into a frown, his head cocked to one side as if listening to something, as if he could hear the voices too. Sherlock clutched his ears, almost doubling over from the pain. His whole body hurt, every molecule on fire from an unseen flame. Jim Moriarty approached the writhing man, keeping his hands behind his back. He didn't seem surprised, intrigued, or disturbed by Sherlock's behavior. With each step he stole toward Sherlock, the voices grew louder, smashing against his eardrums with the force of a bullet.

Tears of pain rolled from his ducts as the shouting assaulted his mind. There was nothing he could do to block it out, no matter how hard he tried. They spoke rapidly but he tried to listen, reasoning that if he heard what they had to say, they would stop. He closed his eyes and concentrated, not even flinching when he felt Moriarty standing inches from him. The harder he concentrated, the more the voices started to distinguish themselves. As they had before, the voices melded together into one voice. It turned from a chorus to an echo to one solid, strong voice that caused his breath to hitch in his throat from the shock of realization. It was still talking gibberish but, after days of listening to it, he was surprised he hadn't recognized it before. It was all too familiar.

He pulled his hands away from his ears, leaving hot, thick blood on his palms; yet his eardrums were still intact. He opened his eyes and looked down as the voice spoke in his head. There, standing directly in front of him, was the source of the voice. Moriarty smiled up at him, lips unmoving, yet it was his voice he heard ringing in his ears. It had always been his voice.

"It's you," Sherlock whispered, voice hoarse.

"What's who?" he asked innocently, staring him in the eye.

"You're the voice in my head. Talking. Ever since you killed John. Saying… what are you saying? Why? Why are you doing this to me? You've taken everything," Sherlock stared at Moriarty with wide, desperate eyes that pled for answers.

Moriarty reached up, lightly touching Sherlock's face. Sherlock flinched sharply at the touch. "You lied to me, Sherlock," Moriarty said, slapping the detective across the face.

Sherlock grimaced at the hit. He felt nothing at first but a dull, throbbing pain quickly set in. He glared down at Moriarty, clenching his fists in an attempt to refrain from reciprocating the action. Moriarty grinned up at him, that sly, lizard grin. He thought he was in control. How wrong he was.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," he replied. Moriarty's voice had started to ease in his head, still prominent but easier to ignore.

"You know full well what I mean. You're not broken, not in the way I wanted you to be," he hissed, venom dripping from his words. He spoke as if he were a giant, a great evil. He thought so much of himself and up until that moment, Sherlock supposed, he had the right. "What went wrong?"

"You made the same simple mistake any idiot would," Sherlock replied as he started to move. He walked around Moriarty to stand behind him, forcing the criminal to turn his back to the cliffs. "I would've made the same mistake a year ago."

"And what's that?" Moriarty seethed.

"You discounted that which you didn't understand. That which you didn't believe in," he replied, being vague just to irritate his foe.

"And what would that be?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Love, Moriarty. You claimed to have a cure, but how can you cure what you don't completely understand?

A confused expression spread over Moriarty's face, pure and honest bemusement. "But I did take it into account. You were supposed to be crushed by your emotions. You were supposed to be overloaded into feeling nothing."

"Quite the opposite," Sherlock said, stealing a step forward. "I was overloaded into feeling everything."

"I'll take that into account next time," Moriarty replied, stepping back as Sherlock stepped forward.

"Oh, Jim," Sherlock cooed in a falsely soothing voice as he continued to advance. "There won't be a next time."

"What do you-"

They were close enough to the ledge for Sherlock to lunge at Moriarty with full force. He ran and jumped before Moriarty realized what was happening, wrapping his arms tightly around the criminal's torso in a restraining hug. The force of the tackle caused Moriarty to lose his balance and topple backward, Sherlock in tow. The expression on his face was priceless to Sherlock. The surprise and horror gave him a sense of fulfillment and victory. He won and Moriarty knew it. Moriarty's expression shifted to anger as they both fell over the edge of the cliff.

Sherlock struggled to keep his grip as they cut through the air. Time seemed to slow as the wind ran past them, seemingly attempting to break their fall to no avail. Sherlock felt at peace; he was ready to die, and a smile cracked across his face just before they hit the water.

The impact sounded like a gunshot in his ears and it was a few seconds before he actually felt the water surrounding him. His first instinct was panic, an urge to swim to safety, but he fought it back. Moriarty was still alive, bruised and possibly broken, struggling in his grip, but Sherlock had to keep him under to drown the both of them. Moriarty struggled even harder, losing air as he did so. With each breath that escaped from his nostrils, a cascade of bubbles flowed serenely through the water. The two of them watched the last of their air leave their lungs as it made its escape to the surface.

Moriarty stared Sherlock in the eye, anger and disappointment clear on his face. It had been a few seconds since all of the air had left Sherlock and his lungs started to burn from the strain. He was waiting, feeling the fire in his chest, for Moriarty to break first. He did. Moriarty gasped, the salty water pouring into his lungs. The criminal fought against the feeling, attempting to force the water out but there was only more of it waiting to get in. Sherlock kept his hold on Moriarty until the thrashing stopped and all the life left his features. He watched Moriarty's body sink out of reach as he inhaled to extinguish the burning in his chest.

He didn't fight it; he let the ocean encompass him, become a part of him. There was some pain but not for long; soon it was almost like falling asleep. His eyelids became heavy, falling over his eyes like curtains. The voice in his head, Moriarty's voice, grew fainter with each passing breath he was unable to take. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift away when he heard a different voice. It was calling his name, shouting it, and he recognized it just as he had Moriarty's. It was John's voice. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, his last thought would be of John. He couldn't have asked for anything better as the darkness consumed him and he felt nothing.

But, even in the darkness, he heard John's voice, calling out to him, beckoning him. He didn't understand. He was dead. There was no life after death, so where was the voice coming from? He was lost, confused, until he inhaled sharply, filling his lungs. He panicked, expecting to be berated by water again, but all that filled his chest was air. Not clean air. He could taste the stuffy heat on his tongue. Hesitantly, he tried again, his chest expanding as if filled with the same thick air.

"Sherlock!" John's voice called again and again, becoming more frantic as time passed.

He tried to look around but the blackness was too heavy to see anything. He tried to move but couldn't, feeling restrained in his expanse of death. The most important thing was what he felt and that was dry. He was no longer in the ocean. He wasn't anywhere but he was conscious. Maybe there was an afterlife after all, he thought.

"Sherlock!" he continued to call.

He appreciated hearing John's voice but it would've been nice if his insanity had let him say more than just that.

"Sherlock, wake up! Please!"

John's voice sounded loud, more distinct, as if it were playing on a surround sound system in his subconscious. He tried to respond, thinking the source of the voice might hear him, but no sound left him. His throat felt dry and rough, as if it hadn't been used in days. That didn't stop him from trying. He forced sound out of him, working lax muscles. It started as deep, unintelligible sounds but, after a few minutes, his voice returned, still raw as though he'd swallowed barbed wire.

"John?"

"Sherlock? Oh, thank God. Sherlock, listen to me. You have to open your eyes. If you go under, I don't know if you'll come back out."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock struggled. "I'm dead. So are you."

"No one's dead, Sherlock, but you will be if you don't open your eyes!"

"But, John…"

"Open. Your. Eyes." Each word was punctuated by a tremor running through him as if someone was shaking him.

Sherlock seemed so sure his eyes were already open but there was nothing to see. Still, he thought, it couldn't hurt to try. So, with considerable effort, he pried open his eyelids, breaking open the perpetual darkness to the brightest light he thought he'd never see again. He squinted, his retinas burning under the assault. His head pounded and his thoughts were fuzzy. He could think but not in complete or coherent sentences. He still couldn't move. He tried but he was bound or restrained… or paralyzed.

He couldn't see anything at first but as he blinked a few more times a face started to clear. He still thought he was dead or crazy because of what he was seeing. He moved his head, his neck stiff and painful, so he could get a better look. It was hard for him to hold his head up straight, like lead on his shoulders.

"John?" Sherlock asked weakly to the face with the wide grayish-blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

A pair of hands gripped his face tightly, almost desperately, as John planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock could feel John's tears as they ran down his cheeks and dripped onto him. John pulled away to look him in the eye.

"I must be in heaven," Sherlock whispered to himself but it was loud enough for John to hear.

"No, you're alive," John said, still gripping his face.

"But you're not," Sherlock explained sadly.

"I am, Sherlock. We both are."

Sherlock shook his head like a defiant child.

"Think," John said, stroking Sherlock's face with his thumbs. "Look at your surroundings. You know that's not true."

Sherlock contorted his face as though he were pouring all of his effort into one thought. "I can't. I can't think straight."

John sighed. "It must be the drugs," he said to someone else in the room as he dropped his hands.

"We'll have to get him out of here," replied a familiar voice.

"To a hospital, preferably," replied a third party.

"I'd rather take him home," John replied, turning toward the other members of the conversation. "I can take care of him."

"Maybe after a day or so but he should really go to a hospital first," the second person reasoned.

"You're right," John conceded.

"You and Mycroft take him," the second person said. "I'll stay here and deal with this mess."

"Thank you, Lestrade," John said.

"Just be quick about it," Lestrade replied.

"I've just sent for a car," Mycroft said. "It'll be here in a few minutes. You should get him out of that chair."

Chair? Sherlock thought. He tried to look down but it just caused his vision to swim out of focus and a nausea that made his whole body shake.

"Gonna be sick," he mumbled as he turned his head to the side and kept his word. "Ugh."

"It's okay," John soothed. "Get it all out."

John hunched over Sherlock, releasing him from whatever chair he was in, he assumed. He could feel John's hands working at something around his right wrist before moving to his left. Sherlock lifted his arms into his field of vision. It felt like moving through wet concrete but he managed it. He looked at his pale forearms, blinking until they were clear, to see them riddled with needle marks. The tiny, bruised pinpricks decorated his skin with the frequency of chicken pox.

"What did I do?" he asked the air, shocked into silence as he continued to stare at his arms.

"It wasn't you. That's a story for another day," John said. "Lestrade, I've got him out. Can you help?"

"Yeah," he replied, rushing to his aid.

Lestrade stepped into Sherlock's sight and to the side to help support Sherlock as he and John lifted him out of the chair. The sudden shift caused Sherlock to be sick again, Lestrade stepping clear of the mess as it hit the floor. The residual taste in Sherlock's mouth was far from pleasant. John rubbed his back as they stepped forward, keeping clear of the sick as they walked. Sherlock tried to assist by attempting to walk but his feet were as heavy as the rest of him. Save for the occasional step, his feet dragged along the floor. John and Lestrade carried him outside where it was day; the even brighter light made that painfully obvious. He closed his eyes to keep the light from amplifying his already monumental headache.

He could hear the roar of a car pull up a minute later. It started to purr as it was shifted into park. Sherlock heard a door pop open before he felt himself being folded into the back seat by the two men and he complied, falling into the car with ease. He felt two other people climb in after him, one sitting beside him while the other sat opposite.

"You can open your eyes now. The windows are tinted," John said.

He obeyed, opening them to a stern but pale looking Mycroft. He turned to his right where John was sitting, staring back at Sherlock. Both of them were looking at him with contained concern. They were clearly worried about his well being. His vision continued to waver but he tried to get a good look at John's face. There was something splattered on it and it seemed a lot like blood. He pointed to it.

"What happened?

John reached up and touched his face, wiping some of the blood off so he could see it. He looked mildly surprised but not confused as if he knew how it had come to be there. He wiped it off on his jeans and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, pulling him into a laying position with his head on John's lap. He stroked Sherlock's hair, calming him.

"It's nothing. I'll tell you later. Rest for now."

Sherlock lost himself in thought, trying to bring up anything important he wanted to ask in a sea of confusion. He knew there was something important. He had mentioned it before. When it finally came to him, he looked John in the eye before asking.

"Have I gone mad?"

"No, Sherlock. You're quite sane. A little out of it, is all. Just rest for now but don't fall asleep."

Sherlock nodded and did just that, humming contentedly as John brushed his fingers through his hair.

It was hard for him to stay awake in his condition. John had mentioned drugs and he did feel drugged, he realized, to an extreme extent. He had probably been milligrams from an overdose but it wasn't self-administered. The needle marks were sloppy, some of them misplaced. Sherlock was a seasoned addict and he knew where to stick a needle. He wasn't sure what had happened but he knew it wouldn't be a boring story.

John kept Sherlock awake with kisses and constant talking. Mostly, he said nothing of importance to keep him alert, but occasionally he would say things that struck him like a shot of caffeine. Things like 'stay awake for me', 'I don't know what I'd do without you', and the classic 'I love you'. Sherlock was still guarding himself because he wasn't sure if what was happening was real but hearing those words in John's voice made him wish it was. Even if it wasn't, at least the John currently touching him was warm.

It was a quick ride to the hospital, the traffic magically clearing as they traveled. Having the government for a brother had its perks. When they arrived, the car screeched to a halt in front of the doors and Mycroft rushed out of the car to sort things out inside. John was left to help Sherlock out of the car and support him as they shuffled into the building. Sherlock cringed at the sight of the hospital but couldn't do anything to avoid it. His system needed to be flushed of the drugs if he wanted to live. He knew the drill as much as he wished not to.

After he was checked in, the next few days were a painful blur of detox and withdrawal. The only thing his rational mind would tell him was that he needed drugs and he needed them badly. The urge crawled around under his skin, making his body burn and itch. He wanted to tear his skin open to make it stop.

He was restrained most of the time and he struggled against them so much that he knew he would have scars on his wrists from how many times the leather cut them open. He'd been moved into 221b at some point during his internal fight but he wasn't sure when. He barely noticed the change in scenery. He recognized he said some awful things to the doctors and John while under their care but it was the pain and the need talking. He knew he would regret it when he was clean. Especially the things he said to John.

It had almost been a week when he was finally in his right mind again. He opened his eyes to see his bedroom which had been converted into a makeshift hospital room. He glanced around the room, searching for John but he wasn't around. Panic set in, forming a lump of fear in his gut. What if John had never actually been there? What if insanity had taken him?

"John!" Sherlock called out shakily, his body shivering from minor tremors. He was half scared that John wouldn't show up and half scared that he would.

"In a minute, Sherlock!" John's voice called from outside of the room.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to arrive, nervous for reason that he couldn't divine. A few minutes later, he walked in with a cup of tea in hand.

"Tea? How very English," Sherlock said with a smile.

"It cures all ails. I should know; I'm a doctor," John replied, walking around the bed to hand him the cup.

He accepted it and stole a small sip for John's sake. Afterward, he just held the cup, leaving it untouched. John pulled up the chair he'd placed at Sherlock's bedside and sat down. Sherlock stared at him with apologetic eyes and John grasped his hand as if to say that it was okay, that he understood. Sherlock felt the heat radiating from John's hand, saw the life and kindness in his eyes; he was just like his John. He wanted him to real but he was so emotionally fragile that if he became attached to a hallucination and was ripped from him, he would break for sure. He stayed cautious for his sanity's sake.

John noticed his hesitance and suspicion. It was clear on his face, the way he looked at him and the way he acted. Sherlock said some confusing things when he experienced withdrawal the he probably didn't remember. Things like 'you're not real' and 'my John is dead'. He knew enough to realize that whatever Sherlock had experienced had been awful. He was going to have to tread carefully.

"So…" Sherlock started. "I'm sorry."

"I know," John said with a small smile.

"Especially for the gay slurs. Those were rude and uncalled for."

"Sherlock, I've dealt with addicts before. I know you didn't mean it," John said, kissing the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Just making sure."

John paused, thinking. Sherlock watched him carefully, noticing every expression, every subtle change. Every second he watched him, the more he was convinced that he was real. When John looked up at him, he looked away, not wanting to be caught.

"I assume you want to know what happened?"

"It would certainly fill in some blanks," Sherlock laughed but it was empty of humor.

"This might be hard to hear." John inhaled deeply, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. "Sherlock, Moriarty kidnapped you."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But only until he killed you."

"Oh." John wasn't sure how to respond to that. Sherlock's withdrawal ramblings made more sense to him. "Do you remember the day you were taken? You worked in the lab all morning and then left for a case."

Sherlock flinched. He did remember, especially the way he'd treated John before he left. "Yes."

"Moriarty took you from the address he sent to you," John said, grasping Sherlock's hand with both of his. "He never let you go. He lured you that abandoned house, knocked you out, and brought you to a different place."

"I… don't. What did he do?"

"He kept you drugged the whole time. Since you aren't exactly new to such influences, he had to use a lot to keep you under. From there, I guess he was influencing your hallucination from the outside."

Sherlock was very quiet, processing all of the information. When he fit it into what happened to him, it explained the occurrences that didn't make sense. "That explains his voice in my head… but there is no possible way he could've controlled everything."

"No, but a few crucial things… like my death. He must've done it because he knew he'd never get to me. Not when everyone was on high alert. We knew you were missing within hours after you left. Finding you was the hard part."

"So, you wouldn't have come running if you'd gotten a text from me asking for help?"

"I would've tried but those officers would never have let me out," John laughed.

Sherlock nodded. He looked down at the tea still sitting in his free hand, getting lost in it. He tried to remember his experience but it was difficult. He concentrated, sifting through what John said was hallucination as he looked for reality. He gasped when he caught sight of it, spotting a flash of a dark room, musty and dust covered. It was a broken room, furniture toppled over, shattered glass, and he sat in a rusty contraption of a chair that was Moriarty's own creation. Moriarty. He remembered him too. He was a mess, so desperate to ruin Sherlock that he destroyed his sense of self in the process. He remembered feeling his hot, disgusting breath on his neck as he whispered influences to him.

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence he created.

"He's dead."

Sherlock remembered the gunshot sound he heard when he hit the water in his hallucination. "You shot him."

"Yes," John answered even though it wasn't a question.

"That's why there was blood on your face," he said, turning to look John in the eye.

John nodded, holding Sherlock's hand to his face as he kissed each of his fingers. He looked into John's eyes. Those lovely eyes. The kindest, most forgiving eyes he'd ever seen. The eyes he wanted to fall asleep looking into every night. He couldn't help but smile.

"I suppose I understand now why everyone in my hallucination was telling me to forget that you'd died. My mind was attempting to inform me that none of it was real. I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner." Sherlock paused, studying John's face again for a moment before continuing in a small voice. "You are real, right?"

"I'm real, Sherlock. It's really me."

Sherlock looked to those eyes and all he saw was brutal honesty and tears started to well up in his own. Unexpectedly, he pulled John into a tight hug, sobbing quietly as he buried his face in his neck. John responded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock just as tightly. They stayed like that for a long time, John realizing that Sherlock had been severely traumatized from being kidnapped. John crawled on the bed to lie next to Sherlock, interlocked with him for the rest of the day.

That night Sherlock slept restlessly, whimpering and crying as his fear plagued his dreams but John stayed with him. He held him close as he stroked his hair, whispering to him positive thoughts that would inspire small bouts of peace in him. That first night home and clean was the first battle in what would surely be a long war with Sherlock's damaged psyche but they made it out on the other end alive and that's all the mattered. When the sun rose in the dawn, Sherlock woke up and stared into John's eyes before speaking.

"You won't leave me, will you?" he asked, voicing his fears.

"No," John replied, vowing to keep the promise he was making. "I never will."

Author's Note: I would just like to thank my readers who have read all the way through to the end, whether you liked it or you didn't. There's one more story in this series called The Eternity Proposition. I promise copious amounts of fluff.