And what happened when you shut down your brain? A familiar voice asked in Sherlock's head. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He knew the chemistry of love. Elevated pulse, dilate pupils, and obsession. Irene Adler had demonstrated it for him just few weeks ago.

But have you ever experience it? Did you understand it?

…No.

Shutting his brain down was a strange unique experience. He stopped seeing things. He couldn't sense the vibrant details lurking among people anymore. It was as if he had lost a limb. It was a fresh, new sensation, but he never understood what the girl meant. Without his observation and logic, Sherlock was just another empty man. Nothing else bloomed inside of him. He should have stopped there. He should have given up. But he desperately wanted to know what it was that they all knew and he didn't. He kept on feeding himself the drug in hopes that something would someday, approach him and make him understand. And it did. He appeared in his head one day. Sherlock was meditating in his mind palace. Back in those days, it was half its present size and the files were more cluttered. Just when he was organizing them with his logical counterpart, a figure emerged out of nowhere.

Hi, how are you?

That was where things started to become more interesting.

What was so interesting about it?

It taught me how to let go.

Sherlock's mind was bursting with thoughts all the time. It's been like that ever since he was a child. Until he experienced the drug, it didn't really bother him. It was just how it was for him, but when he emptied his mind once, he realized what ordinary was actually like. Boring, yes. Soothing, yes. And being ordinary wasn't so bad. Every time the effect of the drug ebbed away and his brain started whirring back to life, Sherlock wanted to run away. Suddenly he started seeing things again. Thoughts and ideas pounced at him out of nowhere. Small details nagged at him and it was as if everyone was talking to him over a megaphone. Everything was too loud, too busy, too vivid, and too obvious. His brain was in the way, he couldn't function like an ordinary person because he was too busy. God, how did he even manage to cope with this his whole life?

And then you decided to destroy me.

The voice said in a cold, accusing tone. Sherlock opened his eyes in a start and turned toward the voice. The logical Sherlock was standing at the doorway with a dark look on his face. Sherlock sat up and edged away from his imaginary counterpart.

"I wasn't going to destroy you. I just wanted you to take a break." Sherlock answered cautiously. The other Sherlock didn't change his expression. He merely gazed down at him with a steely look in his eyes.

"Nicely put, Sherlock." He commented sarcastically.

"Where's Jim?" An annoyed look flashed across the imaginary Sherlock's face.

"You don't need him."

"Yes I do." An awkward pause hung in the bedroom. The logical Sherlock took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

"You were doing fine without him for the past few years."

"Where is he?" Sherlock pressed. The other Sherlock bit his upper lip and bent over. Sherlock thought the man was going to grab his shoulders again and he flinched. He expected his long fingers to wrap around the base of his neck and shake him, but it didn't come. Instead, the logical Sherlock sat on the bed side chair and studied Sherlock with his sharp eyes. Sherlock waited for his counterpart to open his mouth.

"Alright, let me explain this to you nice and clearly." He started slowly. There was a hint of tiredness in his deep voice. "Do you know why I'm out here with you?" He asked. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. The logical Sherlock threw a disappointed look at him. It was one of those looks that an adult would make when taunting a child. "Come on, Sherlock. Use your damned head of yours." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate. It's been a while since he used his head properly. The gears turned slowly and threatened to give Sherlock another painful head ache, but the detective pushed and the wheels started to turn ungracefully. The logical Sherlock waited patiently. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he finally came to a conclusion.

"Jim's inside my head." He remarked.

"Yes, and in another words, he kicked me out of there." The logical Sherlock added irritably. "He's flooding your mind palace with water and tearing those files ups even as we speak." Sherlock laughed at this.

"Jim would never do such thing, he protects me."

"Then who the hell do you think is tearing that place down?"

"I thought you were." Sherlock said with a puzzled expression. The other Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped back,

"Why would I flood my own house down, you idiot."

"I'm not an idiot." Sherlock growled.

"You bloody well are without me."

The two glared at each other for a full minute. It was the logical Sherlock who broke the eye contact. He slowly got to his feet again and walked toward the window. He peeked outside through a small crack between the curtains.

"Hmph" He snorted carelessly.

"What?"

"Moriarty's smarter than I thought." He replied flatly and turned toward Sherlock. He flashed a wicked smile at him. "He's got you cornered."

…

John was sitting at his chair, his head nodding by the warm sun light when he heard footsteps tumbling noisily down the stairs. He woke up with a start. At first he thought Sherlock had fallen down the stairs or something.

"What the…" He murmured when he saw Sherlock burst into the living room fully dressed. He still looked sick and his face was sunken as ever but there was certain alertness in his eyes that John hadn't seen in a while. Sherlock strode toward the window and he cautiously took a peek outside. Then, he hurried toward the next window and did the same. "What are you doing?" he asked nervously.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed and rushed to the other window. He craned his neck to look further. "He's got the press on us."

"What?"

"An anonymous tip saying that Sherlock Holmes may be ill…a tip saying that he's a drug addict. Wouldn't that make a wonderful story?" Sherlock said with a slightly irritated tone. John frowned. Was paranoia finally setting in on Sherlock? "I'm not paranoid or anything, by the way." Sherlock added as if he had read John's mind. John stared at his restless flat mate with a half opened mouth. It was good to see that Sherlock's sharpness had returned but he still wasn't looking well.

"Are you saying that the press is outside?" Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he beckoned John over to his side. John approached him hesitantly and craned his neck to see outside through the curtain crack.

"See that van over there and there?" He said and indicated an unfamiliar vehicle parked across the road. "That's been there since yesterday. And see that man walking down the road over there?" John nodded. "He's already walked past our flat three times in the past two hours."

"Jesus…" John breathed and looked up at Sherlock's pale face. Sherlock's attention was still pinned to the view outside. His eyes scanned the surroundings attentively.

"It's lucky I had a doctor for a flat mate. Imagine what the tabloids would have been like if you called an ambulance yesterday when my heart stopped. Just like movie stars and rock stars. 'Oh there goes another silly celebrity with a history of drug abuse!'" Sherlock blurted out comically. John realized how much he had missed the manic and slightly annoying Sherlock. However, he was well aware that Sherlock was not quite recovered yet. The way Sherlock pressed his right hand to his abs showed that the cramps and pain were still there. It was a surprise that he was standing at all. John also remembered that only a few hours ago, he Sherlock had been crying.

"Okay, Sherlock, I got your point. But you really should have a seat. You're still not well. You look battered." He gently pulled on Sherlock's black jacket and gestured to his chair.

"I know. That's the problem!" Sherlock exclaimed and as if on cue, their flat's buzzer rang. They both turned toward the door. Sherlock slapped his cheeks several times and turned to John. "How do I look?" John opened his mouth and closed them. Then he opened them again and answered uncomfortably,

"Horrible." Sherlock didn't seem to hear it. He slapped his cheeks again to add some color to his face. Then, he bolted down another flight of stairs and opened the door. John followed after him, still unable to understand where Sherlock's energy was coming from. The consulting detective opened the door swiftly. A casually dressed man with a cheap smile greeted them.

"Hi, is this Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. Sherlock straightened himself up and looked as in control as possible.

"Yes, are you a client?" The man offered a hand to shake. Sherlock did not take it.

"Actually, I'm from the-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't take interviews. Have a nice day!" Sherlock said with an unnaturally friendly tone and slammed the door shut in front of the man's face. John was completely lost. Sherlock walked past John and climbed up the stairs wearily. It was as if Sherlock's energy had been sucked out when he opened the door.

"Why did you answer the door if you knew that he was from the press?"

"Because he works for Moriarty." Sherlock grunted as he reached the top of the stairs. "He was sent to check up on me. If I didn't the answer the door, he would have happily reported to Moriarty that I was sick." John entered the flat after Sherlock. Beads of sweat were starting to form on Sherlock's forehead again. "You wouldn't want to do that now, would you? It would be like begging for mercy." The temporal surge of adrenaline ebbed away and Sherlock was once again enveloped in exhaustion. Before John could answer, Sherlock's eyes rolled and he knees buckled. John yelped and jumped at his flat mate. He barely managed to catch Sherlock's limp arms before he collapsed onto the floor.

"Sherlock," John called as he dragged him toward the couch. Sherlock's consciousness had drifted away into his mind palace.

…

It was a catastrophe in here. The water level had risen so high while Sherlock was gone, that Sherlock barely had room to keep his head above water. He can touch the ceiling. The water was as cold and dark as before and it made Sherlock's body ache. His thighs and forearm was getting numb and he didn't know how long he could keep his head above water. Sherlock spat water from his mouth and called out,

Jim!

There was no reply. Sherlock couldn't see well in the darkness.

Jim, I know you're in here!

He yelled again. Sherlock opened his mouth to call out his name again when he heard a faint voice echo in the distance. He strained his ears.

Sherlock!

Sherlock turned toward his left and paddled clumsily toward the voice.

I'm over here!

The voice was more audible than before. Sherlock mustered his remaining strength to claw himself through the thick swirling water. He saw a faint shadow in the distance. He quickened his pace.

For god's sake, Jim, what's going on here?

Sherlock exclaimed at the figure as he panted toward him. Jim swam towards him and grabbed Sherlock's arm. A surge of comforting warmth ran through Sherlock. His teeth stopped chattering. It was as if the water around Jim had suddenly become warm. Sherlock could now see Jim's face clearly in the darkness.

Oh gosh, it's so good to see you again.

Jim wheezed. Sherlock nodded. There was no way Jim was going to harm Sherlock. No matter what logical Sherlock said, he knew that Jim was here to protect him. This whole mess must be some kind of a mistake. Surely, Jim can do something about it. Sherlock leveled his eyes with Jim's and said firmly,

You need to get me out of here, Jim.

The water level kept on rising. Their heads were almost touching the ceiling. A smile flashed across Jim's face. Jim didn't say anything. He just smiled.

Jim?

Suddenly, the warmth in the water started to seep away, as if someone had thrown in chunks of ice around them. Jim kept on smiling but his eyes widened.

Oh I can't do that, Sherlock.

Something suddenly grabbed Sherlock's legs and yanked him down. Sherlock opened his mouth and gasped but ended up sucking in water. The chilling sensation was back again. His lungs stung. Sherlock wanted to cough the water out but it was too late. The darkness enveloped him. Then, he wasn't in the water anymore. He was dry and he could breathe again. He could feel the wind gushing through him and there was a strange, discomforting sensation in his stomach. Sherlock suddenly realized that he was falling down into pitch black space.

Sherlock screamed in agony when his body crashed into the dark surface. He spat blood out from his mouth. His head pounded and he heard a screeching noise in his ears. His limbs were immobile and it was as if every single bone in his body was shattered. Even a twitch of a finger sent hot pain up through his wrist, arm and along his shoulder blades and spine. Every time he gasped for air, his lungs felt like they were going to explode. Sherlock couldn't lift his head so he swiveled his eyes wildly and scanned the area. He was back in his mind palace, except the water was gone and so were the drawers. Not a single scrap of paper was visible. The floor, walls and the ceiling were polished and pitch black. The lights were dim.

Did you really think I was going to let you go that easily?

A voice echoed. Footsteps approached toward Sherlock. Sherlock tensed his muscles. He couldn't move. Jim's face popped into Sherlock's view. The warm light in his hazel eyes were replaced by a wild blaze.

Aw, are you hurt?

A foot prodded Sherlock. The moment the shoes came in contact with Sherlock's skin, a stinging pain rippled through his body. Sherlock clenched his teeth. Then, there was another prod. Sherlock cried out in alarm. Tears welled up in his eyes and blurred his view.

I'm asking you a question, Sherlock.

Jim roughly kicked Sherlock in the stomach. For a second, Sherlock thought he was going to pass out from the pain. He half wished he would, but he knew he couldn't. He was already dreaming. He gulped for air and breathed desperately,

Yes.

Jim knelt down beside Sherlock and cradled his limp hand up. The motion was gentle but the touch sent another burning sensation through Sherlock. He couldn't even scream. He just squeezed his eyes shut and writhed in pain. His fingers twitched and his shoulder shook. Sweat rolled down Sherlock's face and it almost looked like he was crying.

You want it to stop?

Sherlock couldn't answer. He forgot how to use his vocal cords. He wheezed. Jim squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock kicked his legs in agony, which sent a fresh new jolt of pain through his lower body.

Come on.

Jim chimed joyfully. It almost sounded like a person cooing at a kitten.

Yes.

Sherlock croaked. Jim let go of Sherlock's hand and let it fall on the floor. Sherlock screamed when his knuckles hit the surface. He twisted his torso in a clumsy attempt to crawl away from Jim.

Shhhh…

Jim hissed and cupped Sherlock's sweaty face with his warm hands.

If you want it to stop, say my name.

He whispered. Sherlock hesitated. His eyes stared weakly back at Jim. Sherlock was confused. What was going on? Was Jim helping him or was he hurting him? A bead of sweat ran into Sherlock's eye and it stung. He blinked. His head was still pounding and the muscles on his back felt like they were being peeled off.

J…Jim

He stuttered. Jim's lips curled up and his eyes twinkled. The pain still remained.

Again

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose.

Oh for fu-

He began to swear but Jim grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, just like how the logical Sherlock did in the shower room. A scream echoed in the black vast facility.

Jim…Jim…

Jim loosened his grip and placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

Good, now you know that in here, I'm the only help you can get.

The pain slowly started to ebb away. Sherlock shuddered and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

…

"Jim…Jim"

The tormented man finally relaxed when John placed a hand on his forehead. The creases in between his eye brows vanished and his short gasps slowed down. Sherlock was still murmuring Jim's name as if it was a spell to keep him safe from nightmares. The shivers slowly died down and Sherlock loosened his grip on John's sweater. Sherlock had grabbed the front of John's sweater and pulled him over with immense force, that it took great effort to keep from collapsing on to Sherlock's fragile body. The man's eyelids fluttered and they slowly opened.

"Jim?" Sherlock muttered again. John's face dropped.

"No, it's John." Sherlock closed his eyes again. He let go of John's sweater and let his hands drop to his side.

"John…" He murmured. "John." The doctor didn't know whether he ought to reply or just ignore Sherlock's delirious call.

"Yes." John answered. Sherlock breathed in deeply and opened his eyes again. He looked straight back at him and said this time, more firmly,

"John."

"Yes,"

"You…" Sherlock licked his lips. "You're..." John waited patiently. He slipped his hand away from Sherlock's forehead. "Wait," The detective said quietly. He didn't have to say any more than that. John placed his hand back on Sherlock's forehead.

"You're the one that…that helped me." Sherlock said with wide eyes as if he had just made an incredible discovery. John laughed.

"Of course, why wouldn't I?" Sherlock froze at the spot. He stared back at John with an incredulous look. His lips parted slightly. Then, his eyes dropped to his right hand knuckle where the bandage was still there. He slowly wrapped his trembling fingers around John's hand which was on his forehead, and gently pulled it away. Sherlock sat up on the couch and stared at his foot. After full three minutes, he slowly turned back at John and blinked.

"Thank you."

John nodded in reply. Then, Sherlock slung his feet off the couch and planted it onto the floor. He leaned forward and his expression darkened. Sherlock clasped his hands together and bit his lips.

"How are you feeling?" John asked and handed Sherlock a glass of water. Sherlock gulped it down in one go. He placed the glass on the table and answered,

"Good…good. How long was I out?"

"About three hours." Sherlock nodded. John watched as Sherlock's eyes bore into the floor. He knew that the detective was thinking about something frantically in his head. He wondered what it was. Sherlock seemed to notice John's curiosity. He looked up. A fresh light lingered in Sherlock's silver blue eyes. That moment, John knew that the Sherlock Holmes he knew had finally returned.

"John," he started with a low firm voice. "There's something I need to do."

*Again, thanks for reading so far, hope you enjoyed!

Reading some of the reveiws really made me sweat because everyone's just so SHARP! For instance, numerous people pointed out how John didn't call the ambulance when Sherlock's heart stopped.

The moment I read that, I thought "Oh hell, they probably found out!"

I really do appreciate these reveiws because they help me stay on my edge and improve my writing ...but to be honest, I'm running out of ideas! (aaah)

So next up, is my final chapter of this story.

Sherlock's finally going to confront his issue with full help from John (not Jim!)

After this I'm thinking of writing an action-packed story with more mystery/ crime thriller elements, focusing on the relationship between Sherlock and DI Lestrade :)