Your mind never lets you rest. It constantly assesses, analyzes, deduces, files, memorizes…it leaves you no time for sentiment or empathy or affection even if you wanted to.

Sherlock scrunched up his face in denial.

I never cared for feelings. Sentiment is only found on the-

The losing side, I know. You've been telling yourself that for years. But Sherlock, the truth is you've always craved to be ordinary and feel like others.

No I never-

Then how do you explain this, Sherlock?

Moriarty interrupted with a firm look, and threw his arms wide to indicate what he was talking about.

Because of your big brain, you never had anything called friends or lovers. You didn't understand them. So what did you have to do? You had to shut this whole place down. You let yourself drown in drugs.

Moriarty gestured at his surroundings. Sherlock squirmed in his seat.

No, all it matters to me is the Work.

Sherlock insisted, but his voice sounded slightly weaker.

Because all you have IS the Work.

Moriarty's raised his brow quizzically. Sherlock bit his lower lip. Moriarty sighed and stood up from his seat. Sherlock followed the expensively dressed man with his eyes as the figure reached for one of the drawers and pulled out a file randomly. He thrust the file toward Sherlock so he could read the title. It simply said, Ballistics A-17.

You have a drawer full of these. And these.

He showed him a different file. This time the title was East London. Moriarty flipped through the file and showed him a page with a map. It was a map of a park.

See here? You used to go there when you were a kid. You liked that spot. You read here when the weather was clear. You used to walk around this place, and what do you file?

Moriarty flipped to the next page where there were snapshots of the park and a typed report.

Hmm, it says nothing about your childhood memories. Just some observation on its landscape, statistics on people who visited it, and notes on any crime that took place near it.

I must have deleted it.

Sherlock answered with a shrug. Moriarty tossed the files back inside the drawer without even caring to place it back in its proper order. Sherlock itched to reorganize it.

That's the problem, Sherlock. You delete too much. All you have is the Work.

The consulting detective muttered in a low growl,

It's all I need.

Moriarty sighed and sat down in his chair again. There was a look of sadness in the criminal's eyes. The expression was so gentle that it didn't fit his character at all. It sent an uncomfortable shiver up Sherlock's back and something panged in his chest.

You don't need to do this, Sherlock.

I do.

It could have just been Sherlock's imagination but Moriarty seemed to be sitting closer to Sherlock.

Look at you. You starve yourself, you don't sleep…

It helps me think.

What's all the running for?

The two men's seats were no more than a meter apart now. Sherlock's light blue eyes wavered for a second. Moriarty gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

…They need me.

Sherlock said in a weak hush of a whisper. The only time when he felt like he was worth something was when he was solving a crime, a puzzle …a mystery. He had to keep on going. He had to keep challenging himself to prove everyone his intellect. It was the only time when he felt like he belonged somewhere…but he was tired. Sherlock was oh so tired of all of it. Moriarty leaned toward Sherlock.

Take my hand, Sherlock. I can help you. I can help you rest.

The man insisted in a soft murmur but Sherlock lowered his head and shook it. Moriarty gently wrapped his hands around Sherlock's head.

Close your eyes Sherlock. Relax, let it all go. Let me help you, please.

He always thought solving crime was fun. It was pure joy…or was it? Had it always been like that? Is it just that he enjoys it because it justifies his existence? What did he truly want then? Lost in confusion, Sherlock leaned his head against Moriarty's shoulder. His eyelids slowly shut.

Take a deep breath. You don't have to push yourself anymore. You can rest, stop thinking, and just…

Moriarty's voice echoed in Sherlock's head. He can feel the vibration of Moriarty's voice through his shoulders. There was something very soothing about it. He had never felt so relaxed in such a long time. Sherlock found himself slightly shudder as he exhaled slowly.

You don't have to delete anything anymore. You don't need to file anything anymore. Just let it all go.

Moriarty's voice and warmth melted into Sherlock. For a long time, Moriarty gently embraced Sherlock like that for what seemed like hours. He had never felt so calm before. The confusion inside him was all gone by now. It felt so perfect. Nothing felt flawed. It was complete. No mysteries, no missing link, and no need of struggle. He wished to stay like this forever…

Sherlock opened his eyes. He found himself gazing up at the ceiling. His heart was beating slightly faster than usual. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and sighed. His body temperature was higher than usual. It was already morning. He can hear John walking around the kitchen. The shivers and nausea from last night was gone, but when Sherlock sat up, it felt as if his body was half floating. He looked at his watch. It was exactly 24 hours since his last injection. Sherlock sniffed. His nose was slightly runny. It was a typical sign of one of the withdrawal symptoms. He wished his brain to stop craving for the drug, but that dream he saw last night…The detective shivered. He tried to shake the thought away. Delete it, delete it. He told himself but he couldn't. His mind palace refused.

Sherlock went downstairs to greet John. He tried to preoccupy his head with anything other than morphine. He grabbed a testing tube and a beaker and tried to start a new experiment but he couldn't concentrate for more than 5 minutes. John offered him a breakfast but he waved it away. The doctor frowned back at him.

"Sherlock, you have to eat." He asserted but the taller man shook his head as he randomly rummaged around scraps of paper.

"I'll eat it later; I'm not hungry right now."

"You promise?" Without looking at John, Sherlock nodded and he grabbed for his violin but tossed it back onto the sofa before he could play even a single note. He scratched his head. Find something to do, Sherlock. Stop thinking about it… Sherlock checked his phone and his website. No one had contacted him for a new case. The back of his eyes started to pound dully. John was seated at his chair, reading a newspaper. Sherlock placed the tip of his fingers together and breathed slowly. He paced up and down the room. He shot a nervous look out the window. It was bright… perhaps too bright. The pounding sensation in his head grew. A bead of sweat rolled down along his left cheekbone. It wasn't even hot, why was he sweating? He hurried toward the bookshelf to find something to read for pleasure. Every step he took toward the books caused his body to tremble. John was still engaged in his reading. Sherlock clung to the bookshelf and stared at the encyclopedia lined up in front of him. The letters blurred and doubled. Suddenly, his fingertips felt as if it was touching ice, the tip of his feet started to feel numb. The warmth he had felt in his dream the other day, started to seep away. Sherlock was paralyzed. He needed the drug to get his warmth back. Sherlock inhaled deeply but oxygen didn't help at all. The tall man lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was losing control over his brain. It was screaming for the drug, the warmth, the calmness. It had taken his body as hostage and now it was demanding for what it craved.

...

John peered down at Sherlock with a mixture of rage, confusion, and genuine shock.

"You WHAT?" He exclaimed again as he pocketed his phone, but an immense jolt of pain that ran inside Sherlock's head before he could answer. The thin, long finger clutched his head. His body squirmed and he kicked the floor. John held him down and tried to keep Sherlock from hurting himself. After a few seconds, Sherlock stopped and his hands went limp.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked urgently. Sherlock had blacked out. John took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeves. He turned his head toward the door and called for Mrs. Hudson. Sensing that something had gone wrong from John's stressed shout, the landlady came to their door in hurry.

"Anything wrong, Jo- oh dear." She let out a nervous squeak and placed her hand over her mouth when she saw Sherlock pale, sweaty and unconscious on the floor. "What happened?" John didn't answer immediately. He beckoned her over and said in an urgent tone,

"I don't know," he lied "but you need to help me carry him to his bed."

John hooked his arm under Sherlock's armpit and lifted him up as Mrs. Hudson grabbed Sherlock's long limp legs. John was surprised to find Sherlock lighter than he had expected. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice too and looked up with a worried look.

"He hasn't been eating properly has he?" She squeaked and the two carefully carried him toward his bedroom. Sherlock groaned when John carefully laid him down on the bed. Mrs. Hudson arranged his legs so she could pull the sheets up to his waist and keep him warm. Then she rubbed her hip and winced. John pulled up a chair beside Sherlock and turned on the bedside lamp. The curtain was closed and the room was dark. Mrs. Hudson peered over John shoulder with a worried look. John swiftly unbuttoned Sherlock's dark velvet shirt.

"I'll go get a hot towel." Mrs. Hudson murmured and rushed out the door. The front of the shirt was already wet with sweat. Sherlock's chest rose and sank heavily. John held a gasp when he opened the shirt completely. Sherlock's body was skinnier than he had expected. It had clearly lost a frightening amount of weight over the past few days. The rib cages were visible, his stomach was sunken and flat, and his collar bone was dangerously visible. Mrs. Hudson came back into the room and she gently wiped the sweat away from Sherlock's forehead.

"Oh dear, he's burning hot." John nodded and ran out the room and grabbed a bag from his own bedroom. It was the bag he carried to work. He dashed back into Sherlock's room, opened his bag and pulled out a stethoscope. He placed the instrument against Sherlock's chest and strained his ears. His heartbeat was quick and short, his breathing was raspy and thin. John scratched the back of his neck and bit his lower lip. He wished he could do something to ease Sherlock's pain but there was nothing he could give him. In fact, he had to keep Sherlock away from any narcotics.

"Should I get an ambulance?" Mrs. Hudson asked uneasily once she finished wiping sweat away from Sherlock's face. John shook his head.

"No, I can manage, thank you Mrs. Hudson." He smiled weakly. Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock and then back to John uncertainly.

"Okay…well, if you need me, I'll always be downstairs." She gently patted John's hand as she exited the room. Once the door closed, John hurried toward Sherlock's dressings and pulled out a cotton room shirt. The doctor carefully lifted Sherlock's unconscious body and slipped his arms away from the damp shirt. The task was harder than John expected since he had to hold Sherlock up with one arm and yank the fabric away from Sherlock's long limbs with the other. A few more minutes of wrestling with the fabric, John managed to slip Sherlock on a fresh pair of shirt. He slowly laid Sherlock down on his back and pulled the bed sheet over to his chest. Sherlock murmured something but John couldn't catch what he was saying.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked quietly but the detective didn't answer. John sighed. He was probably talking in his sleep. John looked around the room. What did he mean by withdrawal symptoms? From the looks of it, it seemed like Sherlock was suffering from an opiate withdrawal. The doctor looked around the room. Could it be that he still has some stash in this room? He scanned the area and looked under the bed with a pen light in one hand. He felt guilty for snooping around his flat mate's room but he had to. He opened some drawers and checked the bookshelf. He checked some of Sherlock's spare trouser pockets. There was nothing. John sighed. Maybe it was somewhere else in the house. As he turned his attention to the door, he saw Sherlock's coat hanging from it. He paced toward the coat and randomly stuck his hand in its pocket. He froze. He pulled out the object that was in Sherlock's pocket and looked at the label.

"Oh god…" He muttered and looked at Sherlock, then back at the label. The vial had an emblem very familiar to John. The emblem was from St. Bart's.

…

Sherlock ran down the aisle and looked everywhere. He couldn't find it. He couldn't find the exit. His mind palace was in a devastating state. The lights above flickered like a half failing light bulb. It was freezing cold and the floor was wet. Water was leaking in from somewhere. The drawers were opened and files and papers were scattered everywhere. Some were floating on the ankle high water surface. Sherlock winced. The water was ice cold and his legs were turning numb. He slammed a fist against the grey wall. The pounding noise echoed around the area and hurt his ears. He gritted his teeth and continued to punch the wall in hopes that someone would notice. He was trapped. The air was getting colder and colder. His breath was white. He slammed his shoulder against the wall. Pain jolted down his right arm but he didn't care. He had to get out of here before it came. Before he knew it, Sherlock was yelling for help.

Jim!

He yelled. It was the last name he thought he would ever call for help but a voice familiar rang in his head.

Honey, in here, I'm the only help you can get.

Jim, get me out of here! It's coming, please, before I-

…Too late. Something grabbed his arms and legs and pulled him down. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. His body was completely paralyzed as the floor became soft and started to swallow his legs. Sherlock was sinking into the water soaked floor. He sank to his knees, waist, and then to his chest. Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to climb out of the cold goo but it wouldn't budge. Instead, the more he moved, the more quickly he sank.

Jim, help me!

He barely managed to yell before he was completely swallowed by the dark, cold nightmare.

…

Sherlock gasped for air. A hand grasped the hair on the back of Sherlock's head. A rough voice yelled,

"Stay down!" and the hand pushed Sherlock's face back into the cold water. The sensation was all too familiar. He was back again, back in those days before he became a consulting detective. Sherlock fought to free himself from the painful grip but an addition pair of hands grabbed Sherlock's arms and held it behind his back. Sherlock screamed in the water. His lungs were clawing inside him for air. Just when he thought he was going to black out, the hand yanked Sherlock's face up. Before the slender man could open his eyes, he was ducked into the water again. Sherlock was kneeling in front of a gritty water tank at a cold, damp basement. The air stank of rust and sweat. Sherlock tried to kick the attacker away but the hands twisted Sherlock's arms so that pain ran down his shoulder blades. The hand pulled Sherlock away from the water. The young man gasped for air and embraced himself for another dunk, but the hand didn't move. Instead, it pulled his head up so that he had to gaze up at the ceiling and the bare water pipes. Sherlock was shaking and light headed from the lack of oxygen. He gulped for air and spat water out from his mouth. The hands let go of Sherlock. Sherlock collapsed on the cold hard floor. He coughed.

"You don't talk about this to anyone, you understand?" The voice barked at him. Sherlock rolled on his back and looked up at the men gazing down at him. There were four of them. Sherlock had accidentally run into a group of men cornering a woman. Coincidentally, they were the gang responsible for multiple assaults on women that took place for the past few months. Because of them, a curfew had been set out. Night time walks for women were dangerous around this part of London. And so was it for a young man foolish enough to interrupt their night time recreation. Sherlock shook his head. A boot rammed into Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock just grunted and rolled on to his side. How can he not notice this to the police? It was completely illogical.

"I said do you understand?" The voice demanded. Another kick landed into Sherlock's abdomen. This made Sherlock wretch. He gasped for breath and clutched his hands over his stomach. Why didn't he just back away when they told you to shut your mouth? Why did you shake your head? He questioned himself angrily. If it weren't for his big brained ego, he would have been at home by now. Because it wasn't logical. Another kick landed in Sherlock's jaw.

…

John strained his ears when he first heard it. He thought it was a mistake, but then Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and the delirious man murmured weakly,

"Jim."

John blinked and wondered how many Jims Sherlock knew. John took Sherlock's arm and took his pulse. It was beating fast. He had been sitting beside Sherlock for fifteen minutes. The detective's pulse was so far beating as a fast as a man would during a marathon.

"…Jim, help me." John held Sherlock's hand tightly without noticing. Who was Jim? Surely it couldn't be Jim Moriarty…or could it?