Lestrade was tucking the handcuffed killer into the back of a police car as John watched. Sherlock's shoulders tensed a little. He hoped that John would not notice the slight tremors and the paleness. After their adventures in Baskerville, and seeing Sherlock suffer from drugged fear, John seemed to be more aware to the slight changes in Sherlock's expressions. John noticed Sherlock, and turned around. Lestrade closed the car door and looked up too. The killer was watching Sherlock through the window. The detective and the killer locked eyes for a fraction of a second. It could have been Sherlock's morphine-deranged imagination, but he could've sworn that the killer smiled smugly at him.

"There you are," John's voice rang in his ears. Sherlock switched his attention to his flat mate. "I was just thinking of going to get you. I thought you were still looking for him." He nudged his head toward the car indicating the killer. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and brushed his sleeves.

"Actually, I was just looking around the place. I found some interesting stock." He shrugged.

"Oh." John said with a slightly unconvinced look.

"So, another case closed." Lestrade said, with his arms crossed. "All thanks to our favorite sociopath." Lestrade couldn't help teasing Sherlock when he thanked the consulting detective. Usually, Sherlock answered these kinds of remarks with a snide comment wishing Lestrade luck with his relationship with his wife. However, morphine blocked Sherlock from coming up with a clever thing to say. All he could do was flash a weak smile. The Detective Inspector's brow twitched in surprise at this, but before he could assess anything from it, Sherlock cleared his throat and slapped John's back. Just a little too hard, perhaps, since John let out a silent yelp of surprise.

"Well, that's that, if you need me again, call straight away." He said briskly and turned on his heel to go to the main road to find a taxi ride home. John started to trot after him but Lestrade called after him.

"Sherlock, I'll give you a ride. You'll have to walk for a while to find a taxi around here." Sherlock dreaded this moment. The more he stayed with Lestrade, the more likely he will notice that something is wrong with Sherlock. Sure, John is his flat mate and the two know each other well but John has never seen Sherlock while under the use of morphine. Even if John was a trained doctor, Sherlock's impressive acting skill will be able to fool him for a good time, but with Lestrade, it wasn't that easy

Lestrade has seen Sherlock use morphine many times. In fact, they first met when Lestrade was running a drug bust in an abandoned facility where he found Sherlock in a drug addled state. Even after that, Lestrade had caught Sherlock with a series of toxic substance. The only reason why Sherlock was running around freely right now was because he had promised Lestrade and Mycroft that he will commit himself to rehabilitation, in exchange for being excused of time in jail. Sherlock turned slowly back and smiled,

"Thank you."

They drove silently in Lestrade's Corolla. The emergency light was taken off from the roof of the car. Lestrade was in the driver's seat, John in the passenger. Sherlock was in the back seat, starring out the window with a blank look. The passing streetlights were mesmerizing. The logical side of him knew that there was nothing particularly spectacular about those aligned LED lights but the drugged side of him was itching to make Sherlock press his face against the window and chase the lights as it skidded across the window frame. John and Lestrade were talking about something. Their voices sounded like they were underwater to Sherlock. It took a while to realize that John was talking to him.

"….right, Sherlock?" Sherlock blinked and peeled his eyes away from the lights.

"What?"

"You said that the killer's methods were too elaborate. What did you mean by that exactly?" Lestrade asked as he turned the steering wheel to make the next corner. Sherlock didn't reply immediately. Moriarty's gleaming face flashed in his head. He shook it away.

"Oh that…that was nothing, I guess. He just read one too many crime thrillers. Come to think of it, it was a bit clichéd. " and as he said this, another face of Moriarty, this time looking annoyed flashed in his head. After that, the rest of the way to Baker Street was complete silence.

Once Lestrade's care came to a stop in front of their flat, John thanked the detective inspector and hopped out. Lestrade nodded firmly in reply. Sherlock on the other hand, fumbled a little with the door before he opened it awkwardly. He slid his foot out of the car when Lestrade turned back worryingly.

"You okay, Sherlock?" He asked with a look of mild amuse. Sherlock shrugged, trying to look as careless as possible but his heart was thumping like mad. He hoped Lestrade wouldn't notice the heart beating so loudly.

"Thanks for the ride." He said shakily and climbed out, closing the door behind him.

…

As John entered their flat, he pulled off his jacket and slumped into his chair. He expected Sherlock to do the same. That's what they usually did after a tiring case. They would arrive home, fatigued but too hyped up to sleep. They would sit across each other. John would ask how Sherlock managed to solve the mystery this time. Sherlock would sigh, ask John how he could not understand when it is all so simple, and elaborately explain how he reached every single one of his conclusions. This time, it was different. Sherlock clambered in after John, closed the door behind him and slid off his scarf lazily. Then he shrugged the coat away and threw it on the couch. He usually hung his coat carefully but today, he seemed too tired to care. John watched as Sherlock stumbled upstairs without a word. After a while, he heard a faint sound of running water and then a thump as Sherlock's bedroom door closed. John shrugged and stood up to make himself a cup of tea. Perhaps, Sherlock was slightly cross that he couldn't apprehend the killer himself.

Sherlock splashed cold water on his face. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror. His face had a touch of unhealthy blue and blood shot eyes. His hands had stopped trembling but his stomach was swirling instead. He heaved a sigh and tried to calm himself down. Despite his miserable state, he wasn't feeling as bad as he had thought. The worst of the drug had ebbed off, leaving Sherlock slightly tipsy and nauseated. He will be fine. He told himself. It's nothing serious enough to tell John.

Sherlock thought of going downstairs again to have a cup of tea with John but he wasn't confident he could sip even a single drop of the beverage without throwing up all over John. So, instead, he drifted into his bedroom and collapsed into his bed. He knew he was sweaty and his cloths dusty, but he couldn't get his body up. With his long legs half hanging from the bed, he pressed his face to his sheets. He was floating again. He touched the part of his neck where the needle had entered. As he remembered the sensation when the morphine kicked in, his lungs shuddered, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he drifted into blackness.

…

Hey…hey…

Something was patting Sherlock's cheeks roughly. Sherlock stirred.

Wake up. Wake up. I want to talk to you.

He cracked open his eyes. Everything was incredibly bright and white and very familiar. Sherlock was on his back looking straight up at the white bright sky of his mind palace. He only comes here when he is either meditating his thoughts or when he is dreaming.

Am I dreaming?

He asked. He didn't need any answer. He already knew it when he saw Moriarty's face looking down upon him.

For heaven's sake… Get out of here.

He growled. Moriarty shrugged.

I still have another hour or two until time.

What time?

Until you wake up in excruciating pain.

I… What?

Moriarty offered a hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock ignored the gesture and dragged himself up to his feet. He looked around the place. His mind palace, usually organized and neat with countless aisles of drawers with files inside them, were in a complete state of mess at the moment.

You have any idea how long it takes to put those back?

Sherlock said to Moriarty with a bothered look. The consulting criminal kicked some of the fallen documents away.

I found 5 full drawers with only files on substance abuse. You have a pretty impressive history. It's a surprise you're still alive.

Sherlock ignored Moriarty and started to collect the fallen documents from the clean white floor.

You liked it, didn't you? Come on, I know you did.

Moriarty edged closer to Sherlock and nudged him with an elbow. Sherlock waved it away.

Made you remember those days, didn't it? …Those days when you knew how to let go.

Shut up.

I know why a brilliant man like you can't keep yourself away from such a lowly habit. I know why you itch for the drug sometimes.

I said shut it.

I know why…Because you want to be normal just like all of them. You don't want to think. But your head doesn't let you does it? He won't let you.

Sherlock looked up to see what Moriarty was talking about. Moriarty was looking at a distance to his left. He turned to see his own figure lying in far side of the aisle. He was all ruffled and unconscious. It was his alter self, inside his head. The logical Sherlock, the unsentimental Sherlock, the Sherlock that keeps him going. Sherlock felt dread seeping in and settle down at the bottom of his stomach. If the logical Sherlock was knocked out, that means he was completely controlled by the drug at the moment. He stood up and stepped back from Moriarty.

Don't worry, Sherlock. I'm not going to bite you. Why would I? You're me. I'm you.

Sherlock laughed uneasily, unable to come up with any retorts.

No, I mean it, Sherlock. Remember me?

Sherlock frowned. The voice wasn't Moriarty. It sounded very familiar. It was deeper than Moriarty.

Remember? We met five years ago when you first tried me.

Oh hell…

Sherlock muttered as it all came sense and he felt nauseous from his sick imagination. The figure was definitely Moriarty but the voice….the voice was his. He remembered. Sherlock remembered.

Every time you injected yourself you drifted into here; your mind palace. You were too tired to think but the boredom was also tiring. So you made me remember? I'm your friend. I'm the only friend you'll ever have. Remember all those conversations we had?

Sherlock remembered.

They were normal conversations. Nothing advanced, nothing mind puzzling, no insults, no nothing. Just a pleasant 'Hi, how are you.' 'I'm fine, you?' …conversations you can never have in your real life. They were conversations that he won't let you have.

Moriarty flourished toward the fallen logical Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted his glance uneasily at his fallen self and then back toward Moriarty, only to find that it wasn't Moriarty anymore. He was staring right back at himself.

Let's talk.

He said with a smile. It was one of those manipulative smiles that Sherlock usually makes to Molly or anyone else when he's asking a favor. Sherlock shook his head.

I don't need you anymore.

The other Sherlock made a disappointed look.

Come on, it's been a while. Let's catch up with each other. How's it been?

Sherlock froze at his feet, his mouth half opened. In real life, if someone casually asked him "How's it been", Sherlock would reply something like

"That's a very vague question, where would you like me to start?"

But in here, he's allowed to be more obscure. He can just let go, be normal.

I…It's…been…okay.

He said uneasily. His face smiled back at him.

Good, good. Have you been eating?

What?

Sherlock asked blankly. Something flashed in the back of his head.

I said have you been eating properly lately?

Sherlock took a step back away from himself. There was something very familiar about that phrase. Someone had asked him a very similar question just a few days ago. Who was it?

You look pale. You know it's not good for you.

At these words, it all clicked in his head. Of course, it was John. John Watson, the ever constantly worried army doctor, the man who asks the most bizarre questions to Sherlock, the one person who can hold up a conversation with Sherlock for more than fifteen minutes. The man that has once asked him,

"How's it been" and laughed when Sherlock replied "That's a very vague question, where would you like me to start?" instead of scowling like Donovan and the others.

Shut up.

Sherlock whispered. The other Sherlock shook his head.

You were so close, Sherlock. Come on, let's try again…

But his voice trailed off and those all too familiar light blue eyes narrowed as a smile broke across his face.

Then again, it looks like our time is up.

…

Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped for air. He was back in his dark bedroom. His body was half hanging from the bed just as he had remembered it, but his joints and muscles felt like they were on fire. He was sweating all over. He tried to get up but a jolt of pain ran down between his shoulder blades. He screamed in his bed sheets, muffling the noise as much as possible to keep John from waking up. He panted and gritted his teeth. Groaning and huffing, he finally managed to get himself up. The drug had run out of his system and his body was screaming for it.

He scrambled for his drawer and stuck his hand into the very back where he kept an emergency stock for just in case. He hadn't touched it for years. He pulled out a freshly capped needle and a vial with a clear liquid swishing in it. Placing it on the top of the drawer, he kneeled and hastily undid his belt, pushed up his left sleeve and wrapped the belt around his upper arm, tightening it by pulling with his teeth. He groaned and shivers rand down his spine. A headache was starting to grow. Wincing, he filled the needle with efficiency and slapped his arm to make his vein visible. Then he roughly stabbed it. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the drug rush through him soothingly. He pulled out the needle and slumped back. He undid the belt gingerly. He knew he shouldn't have done that without medical supervision.

It was always dangerous for a heavy addict to suddenly stop taking morphine. You could die of shock. What was important was to gradually decrease the amount every time he injected. It won't be fulfilling but just enough to sooth the pain. He looked down at the needle in his hand. His hand trembled. He shifted his eyes at the vial rolling at his side. He picked it up. It was more than half full. More than enough…maybe, just this once, maybe he could inject himself another additional dosage, just to relax …just this once…just this once…