Sherlock's eyes flew open. He gritted his teeth.
Fight it off, Sherlock. Do you hear me?
The voice was growing fainter and fainter as Moriarty clasped its hands around the Sherlock in his head. Sherlock felt another wave of numbness hit through his body. It felt so calm, so comfortable, with no responsibility, no pride, no mind games, no need to prove his intellect, nothing.
Sherlock can you hear me?
The voice squeaked. Sherlock's mouth twitched. He lifted himself up and slowly came into a kneeling position. Then, he placed a hand on his knee and heaved. The voice grew slightly louder.
Get up, get up.
Sherlock clasped the edge of the shelf. Another wave…this time stronger. It ran though him from the top of his head down along the spine. He exhaled sharply. He saw a drop of sweat fall from the corner of his eyes. It splashed to the cement floor. Moriarty looked around him and smiled. Dragging the logical, pragmatic Sherlock around by his neck, he started to rummage through his mind palace. Moriarty viciously flipped over files, ripped maps, and shredded documents. The Sherlock in his head fought against the grasp of Moriarty and yelled,
Hurry!
Sherlock lumbered to his feet and leaned against the shelf. He took a step forward. His knees wobbled.
Please hurry, you idiot!
He took another step forward. He can see the Sig Sauer and the flashlight on the floor, just as he had remembered. Sherlock's heart felt as if it was going to burst or jump out through his throat. He inhaled deeply and placed a hand to his chest. The more he sucked air at one go, the more nauseating it was but he knew breathing properly was vital to fight off the drug. It was boring of course. Breathing is always boring but it was needed.
I'm not an idiot.
He replied to the Sherlock inside of him. Moriarty stopped his hands and looked up. His expression turned into a scowl.
I know you're not, so show me.
The Sherlock inside his head smiled up at the real Sherlock. Something flared up inside him. It was something completely opposite of warmth. Though it was weak, it felt smooth, solid, and sharp. The sensation was just enough to make Moriarty flinch. The consulting detective hurried toward the gun and the flashlight before Moriarty could do anything harmful. He fell on his knees and grasped the fallen tools. He safely holstered and gun and fumbled to turn the flashlight on. His hands were trembling far worse than he had imagined. Another drop of sweat trickled between his eyes and down along his chin. Sherlock swiped it off briskly. His limbs were starting to regain its mobility. As he turned the switch on, the light temporarily blinded him. The imaginary Moriarty took advantage of it and flung the imaginary Sherlock against the hard walls of his mind palace. Sherlock's hand increased its tremble and the flashlight fell. He leaned forward to grab it but his head suddenly grew heavy. He swayed forward. The Sherlock in his head fought back, kicking Moriarty away.
Hurry!
Sherlock snatched the flashlight and heaved up. He turned toward the door and paced towards it weakly, crashing into the junk inside the warehouse from time to time. He was going to get out of here. Find John, find Lestrade, and go back to his flat. He couldn't lie on the warehouse floor until someone came looking for him and found him in a spineless state. He had to show everyone that those days were behind. He was clean. He couldn't succumb to the warmth and most of all, John should not know about this.
Before he stumbled out of the warehouse door, Sherlock wiped as much sweat off from his face and tried to level his breathing. He still felt like he was floating and his limbs had completely lost its sharp reflexes but the Moriarty inside his head was restrained by the logical part of Sherlock now. The most of his brain had regained its control over his body.
He let the cool breeze greet him and he sucked in the fresh air, free of dust. Police cars were already flashing in front of him. He saw shadows of police officers among the lights of right, blue and yellow. Sherlock straightened up as much as his weak half-numb body would let him. His heart thumped. He can hear blood rushing in his ears. Looking as sharp as possible, he strode toward the familiar shadows of what seemed like John and Lestrade, trying to look as if nothing had happened.
*Thanks for reading so far ;)
Now that the action and the build up part of the story's done, I'll be moving on the more emotion-based part of the story.
Here are some things to look forward to
1) a look into Sherlock's psyche as well as how he came to using drugs.
2) some ideas on how he had managed to come out of it with...some help from Lestrade.
3)Sherlock's struggle to keep John away from seeing the nastier aspects of Sherlock's past life
4)more intellectual/emotional conflict with Moriarty and his past self