Sherlock opened the lid of the bottle and dumped the contents down the sink before any stupid thoughts came across him. The drugged half of him shouted and snarled at him for his stupid decision.
You idiot, idiot! Get that back, get it back now!
Sherlock just stared at the liquid swish around the drain hole once and then slide down the dark hole. He had seen something very similar to this before.
…
It was five years ago, in an old apartment where he lived before he met Mrs. Hudson and moved into Baker Street. He was in his bathroom, ready to finish himself off when the door flung open and a tightly clenched fist smashed into Sherlock's jaw…
Sherlock staggered back and almost tripped over the bath tub. Before he could recover, the newly promoted detective inspector tackled Sherlock. His broad shoulder smashed into Sherlock's torso and the two tumbled into the empty tub. Sherlock's back throbbed from the impact. Lestrade sent another blow into Sherlock's face. Then again and again and again…
"You rotten junkie!" he yelled and when Sherlock was sputtered blood from his mouth and nose, Lestrade pulled the bottle of morphine from Sherlock's pocket. The officer dashed to the sink and opened the lid.
"No!" Sherlock yelled and started for him but the officer dumped the contents down the drain. The drug addled man lunged forward as if he could scoop up the contents before it swirled down the hole. Lestrade restrained his flailing arm and held him back as Sherlock shouted,
"You idiot, idiot! Get that back, get it back now!" but the officer didn't listen. Lestrade's hair was a shade darker back then. He pinned Sherlock against the wall. Blood dripped down Sherlock's face and onto the front of his untidy shirt. His face had a ghastly demeanor. He was incredibly thin and bony, his cheek bones and collar bones jutted out sickly. His black curls were untamed.
"Look at you!" Lestrade exploded. He shook the dangerously skinny man twice. Lestrade was afraid that if he shook him anymore than this, Sherlock might break, but he had to make his point or this idiot was going to die. "You know better than this, you know better than all of us! Of all people, why you, Sherlock? You don't have to do this. Stop it, stop it right now!" Sherlock smiled and shook his head.
"I can't" He wheezed. "I need this. It's… the only way I can be…ordinary." Lestrade eased his weight on Sherlock's arms. They were scarred with fresh needle marks.
"You don't need to Sherlock. You're extraordinary, now deal with it." Lestrade barely managed to say this before Sherlock's stomach decided to turn upside down.
…
Sherlock dry heaved at the hospital's sink. Remembering that day always makes him uncomfortable but the drug was trying to make him physically refresh his memory as well.
"Sherlock…?" John peeked into the restroom, "Oh darn." He ran up to Sherlock and rubbed his back like a professional doctor. Nothing came out of Sherlock's mouth except sour-tasting, liquidly bile. Sherlock spat and ran the water. He hastily pocketed the empty bottle before the doctor noticed. "Here, let me see." John turned Sherlock's face towards him gently and pulled down Sherlock's eyelids and looked under his eyes. They were unnaturally white.
"You need to eat." He said firmly. Sherlock groaned.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. You're eating." Sherlock wanted to protest but held back. He was lucky to have the doctor think that he was suffering mild malnutrition instead of the truth.
…
The slender fingers wrapped around the spoon gingerly. The tip of the spoon dipped into the surface of the soup, creating a small ripple. A simple vegetable soup; it was nothing too greasy or dry or hard for digestion. Mrs. Hudson made it for him in a bustle after hearing from John that Sherlock was sick. The spoon chased the carrots around and around. John realized Sherlock had no intention to eat it. Sherlock felt his flat mate's gaze burning into him. The pale man looked up hesitantly.
"Eat." The two men stared at each other glumly for a while. Sherlock squared his jaws and scooped up a carrot and nibbled on it. "I'm not going until you finish that."
"Stop treating me like I'm a five year old." Sherlock glowered but there was something in his eyes that made him look weak rather than threatening. John huffed.
"Then you bloody well should stop acting like one." Sherlock took a bite from his spoon to show that he wasn't sick at all, but in truth, his whole body was resisting. The moment he put that carrot in his mouth, his stomach started to wretch.
"When was the last time you ate anything?" The man asked as if interrogating a criminal. Sherlock rolled a slice of sausage in his mouth for a moment and answered reluctantly,
"Last Tuesday."
"That's four days ago!" John snapped and sighed like a disappointed mother. "Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself? Don't you know it's dangerous? I know you consider these things trivial but imagine how I would feel if something happened to you." Sherlock carried another spoonful slowly to his mouth.
"I have no idea. How would you feel?" he asked, genuinely curious. John blinked at Sherlock. His shoulders dropped and his expression shifted into something Sherlock didn't recognize very well. The detective's hands stopped as he stared back at John blankly. Was it anger? No, it was too subtle for that. Disappointment? Or maybe, just maybe…. It could be sadness. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure. John grimaced and leaned back on his chair.
"Just…just keep eating, Sherlock."
…
Despite John's effort, Sherlock was vomiting every last drop of Mrs. Hudson's soup into the bathroom toilet half a day later. Sherlock groaned as he flushed it down. Delirium was setting down upon him. Still in a kneeling position, he hung his long neck back and looked up at the ceiling. The lights shimmered above him. Everything was blurry. He couldn't move for a while so he just sat there like that, kneeling on the cool bathroom floor. Once he caught his breath, he leaned against the bath tub and limped toward the sink. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. Then he washed his hands for no particular reason. He wasn't thinking straight. He didn't even bother wiping his face with a towel. He turned off the lights and carried himself heavily toward his bedroom. John was fast asleep. Sherlock was sure of that. The tall figure curled up into his bed and shivered. He drew up his sheets closed his eyes. It wasn't long before lightheadedness and drowsiness took over him.
…
Worn out soles, clean laces…he obviously loves his shoes. No surprise since that model's a limited addition. Obviously he's some kind of a footwear mania. Ironic it doesn't match the rest of his attire. He is a stubborn man …an eldest child by the state of his bag. He probably has a younger sister and a brother with no more than 5 years age difference from each other…
Hold on.
Newly wed, works at a public library, judging by the well-developed muscles on her right forearm, she's a frequent badminton player…
Wait.
He's retired for 7 years, widowed 2 years ago. From the way he walks down the aisle of this vast store, he knows where everything belongs, meaning that he's been living here for a long time and has been shopping by himself for a long time too. Late marriage, no children…
No.
Living together for 2 years, the girlfriend's considering ending the relationship. Victim of domestic violence. Pregnant. The man has no idea. She earns more salary than him. A typical example of an unhealthy, dependent relationship.
Please.
Occupation…truck driver
Stop.
An American who lives in London since…
Stop.
A college student, considering studying abroad to…
STOP!
Sherlock pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes and crouched down.
I said stop it, I'm sick of it. I need to rest.
He demanded weakly. A hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. At first it was a gentle, reassuring squeeze but it gradually turned into a painful, brutal grasp. The hand pulled Sherlock's shirt and he was pulled up to his feet.
No
The voice said firmly. It was his voice. The hand held Sherlock's arms. Sherlock saw his own face staring right back him. The lips were drawn tight, eyes determined and hard like steal. It was the logical Sherlock, the supreme controller of his mind palace.
We have to keep doing this, you can't stop.
Please, just this once-
Sherlock started to plead but the other Sherlock shushed him and opened another file. There was a picture of a man, dressed trimly with a pleasant smile and slick auburn hair.
Mid forties, recently promoted, a chemical engineer…
The internal Sherlock read the file mechanically. He busily flipped pages, assessed from photographs, and scribbled some notes in the margin. He made Sherlock watch and listen to all of this. Sherlock shook his head and tried to close the file but the other Sherlock didn't tolerate this. He waved Sherlock's hand away and opened a new file. Sherlock wanted to run away. He looked around for an exit but his mind palace was completely sealed. Suddenly it didn't feel like a palace to Sherlock. The other Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him back to his side.
Four children, remarried, a patient man but tendency to show bursts of anger when…
Just when the logical Sherlock was about to flip the page, something swooped behind the two and struck the logical Sherlock in the head. Sherlock staggered back as he saw the unknown assaulter tie the other Sherlock down with a rope.
Hi again!
It was Moriarty. There was a muffled grunt as the jolly consulting criminal strangled his mirror image. It was a strange sight to see. Sherlock cursed his twisted imagination once again. When the logical Sherlock was finally unconscious, Moriarty straightened himself up and straightened the creases on his beloved Westwood suit.
Stay away.
Yeah, you're welcome.
Moriarty stretched lazily and popped his shoulders. He rolled his neck and then looked back a Sherlock.
You said you wanted it to stop so I just helped you, sheesh.
Yes but I didn't want your help.
Sherlock protested.
Honey, in here, I'm the only help you can get.
Moriarty conjured a chair from behind him and he slid it over to Sherlock. He conjured another for his own and sat cross legged on it. When he noticed that Sherlock wasn't sitting, he gestured at the chair and stuck his chin out suggestively. Sherlock slowly lowered himself onto the chair. He eyed his unconscious self, lying at the foot of Moriarty's chair.
Does that bother you?
Extremely.
Moriarty shrugged and snapped his fingers. With a blink of an eye, the figure disappeared completely. It was as if he never existed. Suddenly, the bright lights in his mind palace dimmed. The while tiled floors became pitch black, followed by the wall.
Comfortable?
Strangely, it was. It felt soothing when he wasn't exposed to the bright white lights. It was as if he could finally relax his shoulders. It also felt very familiar.
We used to talk like this all the time. It took me a while to arrange it back to how it used to be but I'm mostly in control of this place now. Just like before.
The man grinned back at him proudly. Moriarty was gaining control. This means that the drug was gaining control over him as well. Sherlock was utterly confused. He didn't know whether he ought to feel threatened or pleased by it.
Moriarty…
Sherlock started but the consulting criminal raised his hands to protest.
Please, call me Jim.
…Alright, Jim,
Sherlock began slowly, not sure how he should put this.
But why are you doing this?
Moriarty blinked.
Why…because you wished for it.
Sherlock bit his lips. Moriarty leaned forward in his chair.
Tell me Sherlock, what makes you happy?
When I'm working.
No
What do you mean no?
No, that's what you do to become happy. What makes you feel happy?
…When I've solved a case.
Sherlock answered with a puzzled look on his face.
Why?
Now it was Sherlock's turn to blink.
Why..? Because that's what I was born to do.
No you weren't. That's what you were cursed to do.