*Wow, Ch 11 already? This story is starting to drag isn't it? Don't worry it's almost done!

Mitaya - hahaaa nice hypothesis ;) I can't say anything at the moment but all i can say is, it's close!

JForward - True! Yes, as you can see, I speak american english so please let me know if I'm getting too...well, american :) and I actually learned the "jerk" is american english, interesting!

John turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from the floor. He pressed it against Sherlock's neck and called his name. There was no reply. Sherlock's complexion had gone beyond white to an unhealthy shade of blue. John immediately realized what this meant. His instinct as an army doctor kicked in. John quickly climbed into the tub and pressed an ear against Sherlock's chest. He hoped to hear a faint thumping noise but there was none. The doctor then placed a hand in front Sherlock's nose. John squared his jaws. Sherlock Holmes was not breathing.

Something in John's brain clicked and his mind switched to auto pilot. He was back in the field again, where he had no time to think. John was never a slow thinker, but when people's lives were on the line, everything was up to reflexes. His medical knowledge had to pop up in his head even before he conjured them. He sprang to his feet, jumped out of the tub, efficiently dragged Sherlock out and laid him down on the floor. A fresh trickle of blood ran from his neck but John ignored it. It was a flesh wound. The body was ice cold and his wet clothes matted against the pale skin. John kneeled beside Sherlock and placed the heel of his hand in the middle of his chest, another hand on top of it and interlaced the fingers. Then, he pressed down and released. He repeated this compression movement several dozen times for the next half a minute.

John cursed himself. He had completely underestimated the state of Sherlock's malnutrition. Calcium, sodium, potassium…Sherlock wasn't getting enough of it. Sherlock mentioned having chest pains earlier that day. The doctor also remembered the unnaturally quick pulse. Sherlock's heart had been racing like mad for hours and hours with an empty gas tank. Electrolyte imbalances caused the cardiac arrest. Why hadn't John put two and two together and consider the risk? He had taken care of Harry's alcohol problem before. As a doctor, John knew that withdrawal symptoms from alcohol can be very fatal, but morphine addiction? He heard of very few fatalities from morphine withdrawals. Most of them were caused by strokes and suicides. Set aside suicide, John never expected Sherlock to suffer from a stroke or heart attack. Of course, Sherlock was never the healthiest man alive but John knew that he had no heart nor liver failures or any other noticeable medical conditions. Shame on you. He told himself as he continued the chest compression.

He stopped the movement for a second, tilted Sherlock's head back and lifted his chin to open up the airway. He bent over Sherlock's face and pinched his nose. John took a deep breath and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's cold, slightly parted lips and breathed out. He checked Sherlock's chest elevate with his left eye. He drew his mouth away. He saw Sherlock's chest slowly sink. John pushed away the matted, wet curls. He cupped Sherlock's ice cold face and breathed out into his mouth again until his lungs ached. John lifted himself up and gasped for air. "Come on, Sherlock, please come back." He pleaded under his breath. There was no reply.

John went back to the compression movement again. The last time he did a CPR was when he was in Afghanistan. He knew from experience that pleading never helps. How many times had he done this to his friends in the field, how many times had he pleaded for them to breathe, only to find his hopes betrayed. John didn't hope for anything when he worked on Sherlock. He kept his mind as blank as possible and concentrated on what was at hand. Tears welled up in John's eyes but his blinked them back. After several more urging pushes, he adjusted Sherlock's head and pressed his mouth against the unconscious man's. He closed his eyes tightly and exhaled. Just when John thought of going back to the compression movement, he heard a sharp inhale and a weak cough. Sherlock's heart had started to move again. John suppressed his urge to collapse over Sherlock's drenched body in relief. Instead, he peered down at Sherlock with a straight business-like face. Sherlock took several gulps of air before he slowly opened his eyes. They were unfocused at first but swiveled toward John and locked his gaze.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

John asked firmly. Just because Sherlock had gained consciousness doesn't mean the threat is gone. He had to check if the victim could reply properly.

"John…" Sherlock breathed between gasps. John let out a sigh in reply. Sherlock tried to sit up but John held him down. The doctor gave him several more seconds for Sherlock to catch his breath and relax while he briskly dried Sherlock's face, neck, and arms. Only after that did John help Sherlock sit up. Sherlock was too weak to support his body so John placed his back against the wall.

"Stay there." He murmured as he ran back to grab a fresh set of clothes and a large towel. Sherlock scanned the mess with a blank expression. His body started to shiver. John returned shortly and helped Sherlock take off his shirt. The doctor dried the thin body with the large towel and cleaned Sherlock's neck wound with cotton. The two didn't utter a single word.

Sherlock was weak, dazed, and had a faraway look in his eyes but he still had the energy to pull on the dry shirt by himself. He stood up wearily and changed his trousers and undergarment while John fetched a glass of water. The wound on his neck had stopped bleeding. He slumped back onto the blood smeared floor. His eyes lazily drifted toward the razor abandoned in the corner of the room. Sherlock tried to make sense of the situation. Had he been hallucinating? How long had he been unconscious? Hell, how long had he not been breathing?

John returned and crouched in front of Sherlock. He offered the glass to him silently. Sherlock weakly grasped the glass but he didn't drink from it immediately. He stared back at John with his fatigued sunken eyes. John returned the gaze and waited patiently for Sherlock to drink. The army doctor's brows were slightly furrowed with concern. He seldom blinked and his eyes were focused on Sherlock. His mouth was drawn into a tight thin line and the posture was composed but Sherlock knew that John's hands would fly out immediately if Sherlock was in need of assistance. Sherlock raised the glass to his lips and tilted water into his mouth just enough to moisture his lips and tongue. Was he still hallucinating? Was this really John? How did Sherlock know that it wasn't Jim or his internal self again?

Now that the immediate threat was gone, John's mind slowly switched back to his usual self and questions started to erupt inside him again. How did Sherlock end up with the cut? What is the detective thinking right now? What was he thinking before he collapsed? Sherlock looked just as confused, except John made sure not to betray his confusion and tried to look calm.

"I…didn't hurt you, did I?" Sherlock asked slowly. His voice was slightly raspy and cracked. John shook his head.

"You gave me quite a fright though." He remarked gently. John's gaze wandered toward the cut on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock noticed and placed the glass down onto the floor.

"John," he began quietly. A pained, troubled look was on the detective's face. "I'm starting to lose control over myself." John took a moment to try to make sense of what Sherlock was trying to say. "Is that really you, John?" John didn't know what to say.

"I…yes, it's me." Sherlock looked unconvinced by this. He scanned John up and down.

"You're not…me are you?" A concerned look flashed across John's face. The more Sherlock spoke, the more worried he got.

"What?"

"You're not Jim, either?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock." John answered slowly. Jim, there goes that name again. He searched for a hint of delirium in Sherlock's eyes but they only showed fatigue and pain. John took a deep breath and decided to play along with Sherlock's troubling remark.

"Who did this to you?" He asked, indicating the cut. There was a slight pause as Sherlock broke his eye contact.

"I…did this to myself." John blinked. "…My other self." Sherlock added. John frowned.

"Who?"

"He's out here, John, he escaped my mind palace." Sherlock looked up toward the ceiling and then scanned the walls and flicked his gaze out toward the door and the corridor outside. John was completely lost. He gently held Sherlock's shoulders but Sherlock shrugged away from it.

"Don't," He blurted urgently. "It hurts."

"Sorry."

"You haven't seen Jim anywhere have you?" Sherlock asked casually. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock, I think you should-"

"Have you?" Sherlock insisted. John closed his mouth and shook his head. Sherlock grunted and slowly got to his feet. He winced. His knees screamed and stung. Sherlock stumbled forward. John caught him before he completely lost his balance.

"Who is this Jim person?" He asked cautiously as he escorted the tall man toward his bedroom.

"Jim…Jim Moriarty." Sherlock answered blankly. An uncomfortable chill ran down John's body. "I need him, John." John didn't even ask for an explanation. He realized that Sherlock was right. He really was losing control over himself.

…

The next few hours were a nightmare for Sherlock and John. Immense pain in the abdomen attacked Sherlock early in the evening. When John came into the bedroom, Sherlock was writhing in pain in the middle of the bed, tangled in his bed sheets and sweating heavily. John was amazed how Sherlock managed to deal with the pain by just clenching his teeth together. He didn't utter a single audible moan or a groan. The moment he realized John had entered his room, Sherlock shook his head and twisted his face into an even more pained expression. He waved away John's hand and pushed him away from the bed. Then, he pulled the bed sheets up so it would conceal his whole body from the doctor's view. John understood the message fully and exited the room. He stood at the door worryingly and waited until the stifled groan of agony ceased.

John was slightly offended by how Sherlock firmly refused John's assistance or supervision while in pain. He felt mistrusted, both as a doctor and as a friend. The doctor in him itched to tend to Sherlock because suicide attempts are more likely to happen when the subject is under immense physical pain. The rest of him just wanted to do something to help Sherlock as a friend. Once the pain attack calms down, John would slip into the bedroom and wipe sweat away from the groggily lying man's face and give him something to drink to keep him from dehydrating. In times Sherlock's pupils are heavily dilated and in other times they are tightly constricted. His blood pressure rise and fall and so does his pulse. His breathing can be shallow and brisk in times, heavy and wheezy in others. In short, Sherlock was in a dangerously unstable state.

Waves of muscular pain and intestinal cramps came once in every one or two hours. As the hours flew by, Sherlock's exhaustion became more and more visible. John could tell that Sherlock was losing weight incredibly quickly. Every time he visited the bedroom, the man was becoming weaker and weaker. He spoke less. He barely reacted to John's words. He received a weak nod or a shake of a head at best. In other times it was mostly only a clouded eye contact or a twitch or a finger.

Despite the man's immense exhaustion, Sherlock refused to sleep. He would lie still with his eyes open for hours. He flinched and shivered in times. He moved restlessly in his bed. In other times, he bolted upright, paced around the room and retired back to his bed when the dizziness or the muscle cramps kicked in. John afforded something to help Sherlock go to sleep but he merely shook his head and stared at the ceiling. It was nearly two in the morning. It was one of the longest days John Watson had experienced in his life.

"Then would it at least be okay if I sit beside you tonight?" John asked wearily. Sherlock's eyes flicked toward John. His flat mate could tell from the look in Sherlock's eyes that it was clearly a no. "Okay," He muttered. "But call me right away if you need me. I'll be checking up on you once a while." And he left Sherlock in peace.

…

This wasn't Sherlock's first time combating drug addiction. He experienced in-house detoxication once and another at a rehabilitation center, but there were several inexperienced factors in this time's case which troubled Sherlock greatly.

The first disturbing factor was Jim. Sherlock has never experience so much of a psychological and physical pull toward Jim. Every single brain cell screamed for Jim, and the only way to see him again was another dose of morphine. Sherlock shook his head. Jim is Moriarty. He tried to reason himself but the warm embrace and the soothing atmosphere Jim had provided for Sherlock was so different from the Moriarty in real life, that despite the exact same physical appearance, Sherlock refused to view Jim as an enemy.

Then there was his internal self which managed to pop into his real life. Hallucination or not, the logical Sherlock had power to manipulate Sherlock's actions. He even almost succeeded in killing Sherlock off. If someone asked which one was more dangerous, Jim or logical Sherlock, Sherlock would answer logical Sherlock without a doubt. He was an uncaring brutal machine that lived inside Sherlock's brain like a parasite. How his life would have been so simple if he didn't exist.

Finally, there was John Watson. Sherlock didn't have a flat mate during his drug addled days. John was the only proper friend Sherlock had, and he had been trying hard to keep John away from his past life. Sherlock knew John was a good doctor and a friend and he was also fully aware of the fact that John was itching to help Sherlock. Sherlock smiled to himself. Good old John Watson. He appreciated the concern but he just couldn't allow him to get too close. Besides, with his internal self popping around everywhere, John wasn't safe. It was lucky that it was Sherlock who had received the cut but imagine what it would have been like if it was John instead. The logical Sherlock had few or no emotions. If he thought reasonable, he wouldn't hesitate to use John to get to Sherlock.

Where are you Jim?

…

The very first time Sherlock took morphine, it was just a harmless experiment. He was in the middle of a research in narcotics. It was a completely impersonal, business-like motive. It was nearly a year later, when he deliberately injected morphine for a very, very personal motive. That was how it all began. It's ironic how Sherlock can't quite remember what had triggered him to turn to drugs and let it haunt him for the rest of his life. The logical Sherlock must have deleted it. Sherlock tried hard to remember. What was it…when did it take place again? Ah yes, Sherlock remembered the file Jim had shown him with other day in his mind palace. East London.

Sherlock strolled down the park just like he always did in sunny weekends. He took the usual route at his usual pace, but this time, he had company. Sherlock didn't understand why. She always stood beside him; she always supported him even if he didn't ask for it. Sherlock forgot her name. He can't remember, but he can remember when they met. It was when he was still in university. One day, Sherlock asked her why she did all this. Why did she follow the freak around? Why did she try to open up a conversation with him? Why did she struggle to keep up with his hobbies and interests? Why?

Because I love you.

Love, Sherlock pondered. He didn't understand it, he couldn't understand it.

I want to know more about you because I love you.

Really? Sherlock thought. One glance at the girl and Sherlock knew enough about her. He didn't need love to see inside people's life. She wasn't a dull girl, and she was pretty. She had some moderate interest in fashion and had a quite feminine taste. She was also open-minded and had a good sense of humor. But what was her name? Sherlock forgot, or perhaps he never asked. It didn't really matter to him. Love never mattered to him.

He never invited her to the walk. She just invited herself over. At first Sherlock was annoyed, but seeing that she didn't mind being ignored, he left her alone and just treated down the park. Strange, what love would make people do... They will tolerate anything for this thing called love. Sherlock thought to himself.

This however, didn't last forever. Tolerance had its limit, even for love. Perhaps the girl thought Sherlock had a heart after all. Perhaps she thought that if she stuck with him for long enough, a special attachment would bloom inside Sherlock. She had failed to see that Sherlock was a man of pure logic. She was naïve. As her last attempt, she kissed him on the park bench. Sherlock just gave a slightly annoyed look at her, but nothing else. He didn't kiss back, smile, or even repulse. He just sat there and opened a book as if she didn't exist.

Don't you love me?

No

But I love you.

…

Don't you like me?

…No

What's my name?

I don't know.

But we've known each other for two years.

Yes.

Don't you feel anything at all? Anything about me?

None at all.

Desperate sobs turned into a devastated one and then, a slap flew across his cheek. She said things. Sherlock can't remember exactly what but she blurted out how it's amazing how he cannot feel anything. She gave him a chance. She thought he was human, but it turns out Sherlock was truly a freak, just like how they all say.

It's like you're not alive, Sherlock. It's just your brain and nothing else.

Just my brain?

Sherlock thought to himself. He wanted to ask, what else are there in this world then? Back to the girl but she was long gone and he never saw her ever again. The question was like a small seed planted inside of Sherlock. It started off as a small sprout in the recess of his mind but it gradually grew and its vines started to tangle and nag at his other thoughts. Curiosity started to torture him. That was when he came to the conclusion. If I shut my brain down for a while, I can find out what she meant.

…

John rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost 6 in the morning. Nearly 48 hours since Sherlock's last dosage. Hoping that his flat mate was sleeping soundly, he lifted himself from the couch and slowly climbed the stairs and cracked open Sherlock's bedroom door. It was dead silent. John peeked inside and saw Sherlock lying face up on the bed. His chest was rising and falling. John took a step in and froze at the spot.

Sherlock's eyes were open. He was staring up at the ceiling with a troubled look in his eyes, and from his light blue eye trickled a single tear. It rolled down his prominent cheekbones and disaappered somewhere along the jaw line. Sherlock Holmes was crying.

Sherlock seemed to be lost in deep thought. He didn't notice John. The doctor held his breath and slowly took a step back and quietly closed the door. He turned and leaned his back against the bedroom door and breathed in deeply. He had seen Sherlock cry before. They were all fake tears of course. Sherlock can manifest short gasps, bloodshot eyes and quivering lips in a second. He had used this method to trick many people, but John had never seen Sherlock really cry before. The closest he got was when they were on the Baskerville case when Sherlock had been unknowingly drugged with fear gas, but nothing was anything like that. Those were real tears. John knew it.