Left in the fuzzy darkness, Sherlock's consciousness was drifting. He somehow managed to roll to his side. The consulting detective groaned. His heart was beating hard against his chest and his lungs felt like they were shrinking more and more every time he inhaled. His limbs felt like they were underwater, floating, and incapable of quick response. The nostalgic sensation revived a part of Sherlock that he thought was long dead. It started off as a small shadowy figure in the corner of his mind.
No, go back. Go back where you came from. I don't need you anymore. I don't want you anymore.
Sherlock commanded in his head. He shut his eyes tight. The shadow grew bigger and bigger, started to wrap its dark grasp around the rest of Sherlock's consciousness. The sensation sent an awkward tingle through Sherlock's brain and then false warmth bloomed inside of him. He used to consider this experience as joy back then, but now, he knew better. The sane part of Sherlock, the unemotional, practical side of him demanded to regain his control.
Forget that feeling Sherlock. Ignore it. You know this is all a fake. Get yourself together.
Sherlock twitched his fingers and drew it closer to his body. He rummaged his hands around to find out which side was down and which side was up. Gravity left Sherlock. He felt like floating. The cement floor was as if it vanished. He felt like he was in a state of a free fall.
That's right. You have things to do. You need to find John. See if he's okay.
Sherlock rolled on his stomach. He looked up and opened his eyes wide. Now he felt like he was in a rocking boat. The surface of the cement floor swayed and rippled. He pushed against the floor. His upper body slowly lifted but before his arms could stretch fully, the muscles suddenly felt like they were liquefied. The growing shadowy figure was telling his muscles to relax. It was aborting Sherlock's. He fell back down flat onto the ground.
I'll just close my eyes for ten seconds. If I relax my body once, maybe this will all disappear. I might gain control.
He reasoned to himself and slowly shut his eyes. The shadow grew larger all of a sudden and started to intrude the sanest, most secure part of his mind. Its large hands started to tweak the lock leading to his mind palace. A voice, slightly faint than before, rang in his head desperately.
No, no, Sherlock. You know you shouldn't do that. You know that. You know that really well. It's a trick. You're falling for it Sherlock.
Sherlock knew it was a trick. Of course he did. He wasn't an idiot. He wasn't the common man. The morphine was doing this to him. He knew what was taking over him, but strangely, he was fine being tricked for once. Falling for it wasn't so bad after all. He closed his eyes. The shadow broke into his mind palace, flooding through the entrance door, heading straight at the last untainted part of Sherlock.
Sherlock, are you listening to me? Sherlock, you can't do this to me. Not again. Not to me, not to Mycroft, not to Lestrade, not to Mrs. Hudson, not to John…
The shadow grasped the logical Sherlock. Then, the shadow solidified and finally revealed its form. Its hazel eyes twinkled. His trim dark blue suits round collar, slick black hair. Sherlock knew it all too well.
Moriarty.