A/N: This chapter of the story includes brief description of illegal drug use. It's quick and not very graphic, but I've marked the start of that section with an asterisk, so you can skip/skim as you feel is appropriate.

Buckle up, everyone! Angsty times are ahead for our hero.

He knows that it's not real—of course he does—but after that night, he can't let go of what has suddenly become the one thing that keeps him from falling apart at the seams.

When the boredom becomes too much—when he comes up against the limit of his physical abilities—when he starts to push his neglect of his own well being too far—when the loneliness builds and the walls start to cave in—

All he has to do is turn to John.

John, who waits patiently for him in their mind flat, ready to counsel, encourage, chastise, and advise as necessary.

And although this is not the most conventional method for surviving extended exile, it is working for him, and Sherlock has never been interested in conventions anyway.

But sometimes—sometimes, there are moments where it all caves in, and he's faced with the stark reality of everything that he's missing.

It is always something small that sets him off at first.

One time, it was the warmth of contact with another person.

He was dashing through the streets, trying to catch a suspect he had been tracking for the days, when he was sent sprawling across the pavement by a car that slid to a stop just moments too late to avoid contact.

Although he made it through the incident without injury, it took him a few moments to get his wits about him, and in the meantime, a kind stranger—god how he hates those people—who witnessed the accident reached down to help him up—and he was forced to feel the warmth of skin against skin—so real, so undeniable—the presence of another person—and suddenly everything is thrown into stark relief.

The feel of the pavement beneath him—so solid, so real—the sounds of the busy street so loud—the colors of the world so vivid—and the little sanctuary he hollowed out in his mind seems so pallid and frail in comparison.

It was all he could do to keep the nausea at bay long enough to stumble into the closest back alley before getting sick.

It took a full 72 hours for John to return that time.

Some time after that first incident, it happens again. He's sitting in an outdoor café, dark sunglasses on, a nondescript hat, hair cut short and a bit of stubble for good measure—and he should be watching his latest mark, but instead his attention is drawn over and over to a table a few spots over, where two women have spent the last two hours laughing and chatting.

They're not a couple, he's sure of that—after all, no gay couple would be so overtly friendly and affectionate in this particular country—but they have the kind of unrestrained intimacy that only grows from the closest of relationships, romantic or otherwise.

He catches only some of their conversation, but he doesn't need to hear the words. He can read it all in the body language—the way their posture and gestures unconsciously mirror each other, the perfect balance of their tones and conversational speeds, the jokes and looks clearly meant for only the two of them, the casual touches—on the arm, to say look at this—reaching out to fix the other woman's collar without asking for permission first—one of the clearest signs of intimacy that doesn't involve actual exchanges of bodily fluid.

And as Sherlock watches and listens, he can't help but think that in another time and another place, someone else could have been watching him and John as they perform this very same dance of intimacy and closeness and caring that doesn't need any words to be felt.

It's this, more than anything, that seems to shatter his fragile equilibrium. What these two women have is so real, and what he has—well, it's nothing more than a conversation between two parts of himself, no more real than the imaginations of a schizophrenic mind—even less true, because he knows without a doubt that his particular escapist delusions are not and never will be true.

Eight days have passed since that afternoon in the café, and there has been no sign of John since. He tries to retreat into his mind flat, but there's nothing, just a blankness that pushes him out as soon as he tries to dive back in.

His brain—it begins to tear itself to pieces without the steadying influence of John's presence, without the anchor to hold himself to the ground.

He feels like a caged animal—a rabid dog that attacks itself when there is no one else around—

He needs the silence, the quiet—to be free if only for a few hours—

And so—now that it has all come crashing down—he escapes in the only other way he knows how.

*Even in a foreign country, it's not hard to find heroin—not if you know where to look, and he always does. He tells himself that it's okay, that he needs this—after all, he has a bullet hole in his shoulder and a black hole in his chest—an emptiness that threatens to swallow him, if he doesn't find something to fill it, to soothe it, to dull the ache.

And that's how he comes to find himself here, with his sleeve rolled up, loaded syringe in his hand—and John—his John—is nowhere to be found.

So he finds the vein—a small pinprick—and then a few minutes later, he feels it—relief.

Where once there was pain, now there is only a warm buzz—pleasure—and he takes out a cigarette, and smokes it slowly—savoring the feel of the smoke as it slides down his throat—and the peace, the quiet—as the drugs flood his brain—

He puts out his cigarette and allows himself to sink into the arms of this deep somnolence, as it pulls him down, deeper and deeper to a land of nothing.

John's nowhere to be found, but it doesn't matter now. He's not lonely, not anymore.

He feels no pain. His mind is a blank slate.

Nothing matters. Nothing hurts.

And in his head, there is only silence.

A/N: Don't worry, John will be back in the next chapter! Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to everyone who has reviewed the story so far.