Chapter Seven

I was running. Why was I running? It was freezing cold and rain was pouring from the sky, which had been split by the crack of lightening overhead. How long had I been running for, and why couldn't I remember? My entire body ached from my effort, my legs shaking and close to giving out, but the pound of adrenaline kept me going with a desperate need for something that I couldn't identify.

I stopped, my legs too weak to go on, and I felt the freezing bite of cold water against my cheek. I tried to push myself up out of the puddle, but my arms were too weak. There was someone beside me, coming out of an alleyway it seemed, and their feet splashed through the puddle and soaked me,

"Get up. We have to get it." I blinked in surprise as I looked up and came face to face with myself. The other man had my exact features, but they were twisted into a crazed look, with a hunger that I hadn't seen in the mirror for a few years,

"What's going on?" Hands closed around my arms, pulling me upright,

"Come on! We need to get it; we need it." An arm encircled my waist, pulling me onwards, but I resisted,

"What are you talking about?"

"We have to go to our dealer. We have to find someone… anyone!" I shoved him, trying to get out of his grasp, and his distraction was just enough for me to get free,

"No, we gave that up years ago—" He turned back to me, eyes flashing, and I was yanked forwards by the front of my shirt. He was manic, and I was beginning to worry about what he could do. Then there was a voice, from somewhere deeper in the alleyway,

"Put him down." I knew that voice. Sure enough, when we turned, there I was. He was leaning against the alleyway, the expression on my mirror image far closer to the usual calm, deductive look I had. He wasn't looking at us, his eyes were casually focused on his phone,

"Why?" asked the other man, who was still holding the front of my shirt. "I need him. I need him to get the drugs, but he won't listen."

"We don't take drugs anymore, Sherlock."

"I know," I said. He shook his head,

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to him, the addict. Don't listen to him. Think about this logically. It rotted our brain and slowed it down. We work for Lestrade now, we solve cases and if we go back on the drugs then we won't be allowed to assist anymore. We need work, that's all that matters—"

"Just because you're a psychopath..." The other version finally looked up from the phone, the irritation clear on his features,

"You've been talking to Anderson haven't you? That is the conclusive proof that the cocaine rots your mind, you stupid addict. I am the Sociopath, I am not now – nor will I ever be – a psychopath, that's a separate personality."

As I watched myself having an argument, I was certain of one thing. I was definitely having a mental breakdown; it was the only explanation. The addict had released me to walk towards the sociopath and, as soon as he let go, I fell back against the alleyway's wall.

Immediately, there was a comforting hand on my shoulder, and a gentle voice said,

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" I looked up to see another mirror image, but this time he had an alien look of niceness that I had never seen on my face. He hovered over me with obvious concern, as the addict bickered with the cool, uncaring sociopath, and tried to help. Gently, he took hold of my elbow and helped me to sit down, before wrapping an arm around my shoulder, ignoring my attempts to resist, and gently smoothing my sopping wet curls, "Don't worry, Sherlock. You're not insane—" I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief,

"Yes, I rather think that I a. I'm hallucinating and I'm not even on drugs. I'm fairly sure that means I'm losing my sanity, or what little of it I had to begin with—"

"Of course you are. You're a total whack-job!" We looked up to see another one stood at the foot of the alleyway, silhouetted except for the small chink of light on his piercing eyes. He smiled, but it didn't quite meet his eyes, which fixed their cold gaze onto my face, "It seems you've finally tipped the scales. Maybe you're not even the real personality. Maybe, you're another one of us; we've got the addict, the sociopath, the psychopath, the goody-two shows and the Freak."

The one with his arm around me had moved, pushing me slightly behind him and shielding me, as if to protect me from the cruel words, which I was beginning to realise were completely true.

"Please, I know you're the psychopath, but can you not do this right now? Sherlock's clearly suffering, and we need him to get better. He's ill, if he stays here any longer then we will all catch our deaths along with him. Sherlock, can you get up?"

There was another voice behind me, much quieter and meeker than the loud personalities that surrounded me,

"I'm scared, Sherlock. It's too cold and dark Where's my teddy? Where's John?" A child had appeared at my side, looking up at me with familiar blue eyes, peeking out from under flattened, wet curls. He tugged on my sleeve, pouting as he begged for his friend. The kind version smiled at him comfortingly and – still supporting me with one arm – bundled the child up in the other, before helping me to my feet.

"He's not here, Lockie, but we're going to go find him. He can help Sherlock—"

"The only people who could hope to help us have straightjackets ready to hold us down," said the Sociopath, who had returned to texting and ignoring the addict. "We should take Sherlock to get psychiatric help. He has Dissociative Identity Disorder, but we've escaped. I've never heard of it before; there's possibly underlying schizophrenia and hallucinations. We need to get professional help."

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to push the wet curls out of my eyes. I was close to collapsing from the cold and the exhaustion and, apparently sensing this, the kind version gently lent me against the wall for support, so that I wouldn't fall.

"Why is this happening to me?" I asked him. He just smiled sadly – unable to answer. It was the psychopath who spoke up from across the alleyway, where he was still lurking in the shadows.

"You really haven't figured it out? I guess you are as weak and stupid as I thought. What's the main cause of DID? Can you deduce anything from that?"

"Childhood trauma and abuse," said the Sociopath. He pocketed the phone, looking me dead in the eye, "Typically it's of a sexual nature. Isn't that right, Sherlock?" It only took me a second to realise he wasn't addressing me, but the psychopath to his right. The crazed man smiled,

"Gold star for the top identity," he said. "I quite like you actually. If we could feel anything romantic, I'd probably jump you right where you stand." That was healthy; apparently, our arrogance had built to such a level that we could only feel attraction for ourselves. "Unfortunately, I don't think much of sex anymore… not after what your father and those men did to me."

All of the identities, even the wailing addict, went silent all of a sudden. They were staring at him in shock and shaking their heads. Only the child and I remained ignorant, the little boy moving to cuddle close to me, his eyes wide with confusion,

"What's he talking about?" I asked.

They ignored me, still glaring at the psychopath, until I finally snapped and bellowed, desperate for an answer, "What is he talking about?" They looked at me in pity and the kinder one at my side chose to speak, before any of the others could,

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, we've been trying to protect you, but you know already. You know what happened, and I think you've always known. When you were younger, you couldn't cope, so you blocked the memories and sent your childhood away in the form of Lockie. Then, you let him," he pointed towards the psychopath, "suffer the pain, so you wouldn't have to remember it. But, somewhere deep down, you've always know, what happened."

Suddenly, it was all coming back. The memories of all of the identities were returning to me, flooding my mind, and then the alleyway was empty. I was alone; curled up in the pounding rain with only the horrible nightmares from my childhood to keep me company.

I closed my eyes and let out a scream, trying to block out the voices and the thoughts, but they came thundering through my mind. Each of the identities was screaming their own input and flashing their images at once – causing my senses to go into overdrive.

I was only vaguely aware of someone grabbing my thrashing limbs and pulling me away, trying to get me to shut up, and then it went black again.

When I came back, and whichever identity that had been controlling me letting go, I was lying in an unfamiliar bed with a bare, sweaty arm wrapped around my bare chest. I instantly flinched, but it only got worse when I identified the owner of the arm,

"Ooh, is the real Sherlock finally back?" I stumbled out of the bed. Immediately, I set about picking up my clothes, which were strewn across the floor. The only thing left covering my body was a couple of bite marks and the fluffy pink handcuffs that I remembered seeing in the window of a sex shop.

"Moriarty? What's going on?" He smirked at me, leaning back against his pillows,

"Pity, I had hoped that your other side would relay the memories. He did seem to rather enjoy it." He smirked, shaking his head, "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. You were the one who picked me up after all, I simply went along with your amorous pursuits." I felt physically sick and my entire skin writhed. I felt dirty,

"I was treated to meeting a couple of your different sides actually. The psychopath and I got along particularly well, he took great delight in helping me plan a few murders, and the little kid was rather fun. We made cupcakes together."

I shuddered, trying to pull on my clothes and block out the thought of what I must have done with the other man – my enemy. "But the sexy side of you is my favourite by far… so charming and yet demanding. I had rather hoped he would remain long enough for another round—"

"Screw you—"

"That's what I was hoping for actually." I glared at him and pulled my shirt on, not stopping to button my shirt, or do up my trousers, in my rush to leave. He didn't try to stop me. He simply let me disappear; he'd had his fun. I felt sick… had some part of me actually enjoyed Moriarty's company, and actually wanted him? Part of me had related to him, and another part had wanted him – even had him. I had no control. They came and they went as they pleased, they did what they wanted and I could do nothing to stop it.

As if to prove my point, part of my journey disappeared into darkness and there was an abrupt transfer between the deserted part of London, where Moriarty was hiding, and the roof of St Bart's. I barely even jumped as I looked down at the pavement all the floors below.

There was a hand holding mine and I looked to see myself. His face was listless and pale, he didn't look up and his voice was far quieter and less confident that I was used to,

"Hello, Sherlock. You don't know me, do you? Probably not, no-one does. They all forget about me… poor lonely little depressed Sherlock, forgotten and neglected in the back of your head. The others don't like me either. Everyone picks on me."

"What are we doing up here?" He raised an eyebrow, though it was a despondent movement rather that the cocky way we usually did it. He sighed as he turned hisf ace to the rain and the night sky,

"I thought it was obvious. We're going to jump. This is the first time I've had you on your own, and I want you to see things my way for once. No-one ever does—"

"I don't want to jump."

"Really? Look deep down, and you'll see me there. That's where I am, the despair and the anguish. I'm the lonely little Sherlock who never had a real friend, or a family who loved him. He never had a celebrated birthday or a Christmas at home because he was sent to boarding school, and his father despised him. Will John even mourn us when we're gone?"

"Of course, he's our friend—"

"He's our flatmate. You said it best, Sherlock; we don't have friends."

"We just have one. That's John!"

"Really? I don't think he's our friend. We're just a hassle to him. We're the annoying flatmate who leaves body parts in the fridge, keeps him up playing violin and calls him halfway across town just for milk, or a trivial task you think beneath you. I bet you anything he'll think it a relief if we unburden him." I shook my head, trying to take a step back, but the hand closed tighter around mine and held me in position,

"You're wrong."

"I'm not the one thinking this. You are, Sherlock, and I'm just saying it for you. Nobody really cares about us, Sherlock, You're just the freak, even Mycroft doesn't want to handle us anymore; we're an embarrassment, and he's probably sick of cleaning up our messes to prevent his own humiliation."

"We're not that bad."

"Then why isn't he here?" I shook my head, but still the hand didn't release me,

"He probably doesn't know where we are."

"Do you really believed that?" he asked, laughing slightly – though it was a humourless chuckle. "Mycroft always know where we are. If he really wanted to help then he would already know we're here and he'd be talking us down. He wants you to jump. Everyone does. They'll probably all gather round to collect the pieces of your splattered brain, laughing as they go. Just do what they want for once. What we want. Jump."

Finally, I pulled my hand free from his and stumbled back, falling back onto the safety of the roof. I shook my head, rubbing a hand hastily over my eyes. I didn't want him to see the tears and think he was right. He wasn't. I was sure he wasn't.

"No, you're wrong. I don't want to die, not yet—"

"Those men wanted you to die. I daresay you'd be dead if the psychopath hadn't seen his oppurtunity as they were raping him… raping us. They raped you, too, Sherlock. They hurt you just like your father used to. You hated him, but now look at you. You're the same. Crazy. You always promised that you would never be like that man… and now look at you, you've even got the same illness."

"It's not my fault there's a hereditary link, and I'm not as bad as him. I would never heart anyone—"

"But, you did though. You killed those men." I shook my head, trying to block it out. I didn't want to remember the night, the memories of which were finally coming back to me, and I didn't want to remember my father. Until a few hours ago, I had remembered very little of my childhood and, now, there it was. The horrors were laid bare; in stark and terrifying abundance. It hurt.

I could see it all; the attacks, the injuries, the days of discomfort sitting at my desk, the hospital appointments and the look on my mother's face as she lied to the hospital staff. Mother always took Father's side, and Mycroft was no better. He told me not to speak of indecent things if I tried, so I forget them. I locked them away. I couldn't do it anymore.

"It was self-defence."

"But you enjoyed it. You know you did." I wanted to shut him out, but I couldn't. He was right; somewhere, deep down, I knew that I had enjoyed it, and that made me sick. I had spent years of my life denying the darkness, trying to hold onto my sanity, an working on the side of the angels, but I knew now that it was all in vain. I was a devil beneath it all.

"You're just a pathetic freak. Do everyone a huge favour and just kill yourself." My chest ached with the pain of it all, and the inability to suppress it any longer. He held out a hand and I took it, allowing him to pull me back to look over the edge, so I could look out and consider the end.

I was just allowing my foot to lift from the concrete when a hand grabbed the back of my coat and someone, I don't know which personality it was, hissed,

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. Get down."

"Sociopath, or psychopathic murderer?" I asked.

"Sociopath," he said, and I relaxed slightly. Of all of the personalities, I could relate most with him. "Sherlock, be logical about this. You're hurting now, but that'll past. I understand you're shaken up, but this isn't the solution. You've done well, you have a life and some good friends, and you shouldn't throw that away in one rash act because of this idiot. We don't listen to him for a reason—"

"Maybe because I'm right—" The sociopath shot him a dirty look, and he fell silent. He turned to look over the edge, returning to his moping,

"He's not right. He's the little voice in the back of everyone's hand, telling them that they're not good enough and they're not happy enough, but we push him down because he's a danger to you, Sherlock—"

"As opposed to all of you, festering in the background?"

"We will never hurt you, Sherlock." I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief,

"No, you'd rather just ruin my life. Perhaps, I should take his advice before you lot can do anymore damage. You've probably already alienated John, you've forced me to have sex with my arch-nemesis, you've probably ruined my career and both my reputation and mental health are in tatters because of you." The sociopath shook his head, his eyes still cool and unaffected by my anger,

"You can't really blame us for that, Sherlock. We are merely the symptoms of the madness and not the cause. You know the cause, but you've begun to accept it. That means you can go back to John and he'll help you. You're going to be fine; we don't want you to kill yourself, and you don't want to do it. Go home, Sherlock, and talk to John. You need him now more than ever."

I nodded, and his hand reached out to help me down from the ledge. I don't remember the rest of the journey, but I came back to my conscious mind as I stoof on the doorstep to 221 Baker Street.

The door was unlocked, clearly John had left it open for me, and I raced up the stairs ready to tell John everything and hope he understood. He wasn't there, but that didn't mean the flat was empty. They were all there. Every single one of them, or at least the one's I knew.

Stood brazenly, back bolt upright and with a look of deadly calm, the Sociopath was composing a complex melody by the window, which I had never heard. He was playing to the kind personality and the child, who were both clapping and offering encouragement from the windowsill. The child was clutching the skull to his chest, like a teddy bear, and trying to hum along to the music, but failing miserably.

The desk was occupied by the lustful personality, who was searching the internet and occasionally clicking links that made my cheeks instantly heat up at their sight. I think I even spotted Irene Adler's website at one point. He was accompanied by the depressive personality who, having been previously reprimanded, was moping on the edge of the desk with his back to the room. The quiet calm of these four personalities was balanced by the chaos of the addict, who was running in circles and overturning tables and chairs in search of drugs.

It was surreal to see them all sitting around the flat, calm and unaffected by my presence, as if they were simply my family round for afternoon tea. They weren't paying me any attention; they were consumed by their own activities. I watched them for a minute, and it slowly began to dawn on me that something wasn't right. There were six mirror images, and that meant there was one missing.

The second I realised who was missing, he was immediately the only one left. The psychopath was leaning against the desk, a smirk crossing his features,

"You called?" I tried not to pay him any attention. I turned and went through the kitchen and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Perhaps if I ignored him then he would go away. Turning on the tap, I bent down to splash some water and try to get a grip, but he was there. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him reflected in the mirror. He didn't look happy. "You can't just ignore me, Sherlock. I am you, and you love you. In fact, I don't think there's anyone you would rather talk to. You speak to yourself for days and still love the sound of your own marvellous voice."

I tried to keep ignoring, but it was difficult when I was smashed out the head and my nose collided with the edge of the sick with a bone crushing crunch. Blood spurted free from the nostrils immediately, streaming across Mrs Hudson's usually immaculate porcelain and I looked up through streaming eyes,

"Are you going to kill your own body? I don't think that'll work out too well for you." He smirked, shaking his head,

"On the contrary, I think it will work very well. I don't need you; I'm the one in control, the dominant personality, and if I get rid of the primary Sherlock then I'll take control." I laughed, the movement causing the blood to bubble out of my nostril,

"Getting rid of me will kill you, too. I'm your physical body, and you still need me." He just laughed, shaking his head for a second, and then he snapped. Within the space of a second, his entire persona changed and a hand shot out to close around my neck. Not content to simply choke me, he flicked his wrist and slammed my head into the mirror.

Shards of mirror rained from the sky, slicing through my skin, and he smashed my head against the mirror again. The disorientation was getting worse by the second, but I managed to shove him off of me and stumble away from him into the living room – hoping to give the other personalities time to resurface and intercept him. They didn't fail me; they were back in their positions when I stumbled through, blood pouring from my head and leaving a crimson trail through 221b.

They finally looked up from their activities and, upon seeing the state I was in, they reacted with horror. Immediately, they jumped to their feet and raced to form a protective circle around me as the psychopath stormed towards us. One of them had taken my hand, quietly soothing me, and the sociopath stepped forward to speak as their leader. The psychopath laughed at their positions, before simply saying,

"Get out of my way."

"No," said the sociopath. "You'll have to go through us to get to him." The psychopath scoffed, stepping closer to his calm counterpart. They began to circle, facing off, and I had to watch very closely to keep track of who was speaking. Of all the personalities, they were the most similar, and yet I still identified most with the sociopath.

My attacker was holding a shard of the broken mirror in his hand, twirling it between his fingers and paying no attention when he squeezed his hand and droplets of blood dripped down his palm,

"How long do you think you could last against me?" he asked, finally. "I was always the fighter. I bore the brunt of it, and you lot just camped out at the back of his head and let me deal with it—"

"Yes, and we're sorry that you had to cope with that, but you were the one most able to cope with it. You didn't care, and you were the strongest—"

"And that is why I am going to beat you now, and I'll do it with ease." The sociopath stopped, his voice cold and trying to make him see sense,

"You know that this is illogical. You can't kill him, or you'll kill all of us… you'll kill yourself, for God's sake!"

There was a sudden movement, and I stumbled back as I watched the psychopath sink the long shard of mirror into his adversary's stomach. Nothing happened, however. There was no blood, and the sociopath's expression did not change. Then, he flickered. One second he was there, and the next he was gone… and then he disappeared completely.

Suddenly, everything went black, and all I could feel was the burning heat in my stomach.