Warnings: mention of drugs and hallucinations 

Word count: 884

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He wasn't feeling too well. His movements were slow and sluggish as he leaned back on the couch, eyes closed to try to lessen the sound of his mind reeling and get a grip on reality.

He couldn't focus on even a single room in his mind palace. Everything was moving too fast for him to get a grip on. The room with Irene was in front of him one moment, the next it was John's wedding. He couldn't focus.

His grip on the folded piece of paper tightened and loosened, his thumb tracing over the edge of it. There was always a list, no matter what, it was always there. He always makes a list, it helps him keep track of what he took. How does Mycroft remember this? Right, he's a Holmes, of course, he would remember it.

Opening his eyes again, he attempted to focus on the ceiling. Flashes of memories interrupted his vision and more importantly, his focus.

John could walk in any moment, maybe even Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade. They'll surely give him a mouthful if they catch him like this; John especially.

He frowned. Why couldn't he just forget John in the first place, or better, why couldn't he just forget everyone he had ever met. But he could never forget, his mind wouldn't let him. Surely he keeps memories in the catacombs of the palace, but he would never forget them.

He rubbed his hands over his face as he sat forwards, letting out a deep sigh in the process. His elbows rested on his knees.

Maybe he shouldn't have taken a bigger dose this time. Normally he only took a seventh of the dose given to him; small, yet strong enough to get him high for at least a couple of minutes so he could focus.

This time it was different, he couldn't focus at all.

He let out a low chuckle as he realized he made a mistake. Sherlock Holmes made a mistake, again.

He makes many, yet he would never admit to them being his, always blaming it on someone else or changing the story entirely.

He wished he could tell the truth about everything, but if he did, nobody would trust him with anything anymore. Everyone would walk away and he would be alone again. He doesn't want to be alone again, he hated the feeling before and he fears ever feeling it again.

"Oh Sherlock, did you do something wrong again?" Moriarty's voice made him jolt his head up to look at him. Indeed, the consulting criminal was sitting in his chair as if it was his own, a cup of tea in his hand.

"Go away." Sherlock was tempted to just shut him up himself.

"You can't shut me up, I'm inside your head, I know what you're thinking."

"I can shut you out, I can forget you."

"We both know that's not possible. I gave you the time of your life," the psychopath chuckled and took a sip of his tea, setting it down on the coffee table beside him. "And now you miss it."

"No I don't, people could have gotten killed in that game of yours. My friends, my family could have gotten hurt or murdered just because you wanted to have a little 'fun'." Sherlock's voice raised in volume as he abruptly stood up.

The action managed a sarcastic, "Oh so scary." chuckle from Moriarty as he copied him. He watched him, eyes reading and observing, "Look at the mirror Sherlock, tell me what you see."

Sherlock took a deep breath. Moriarty was dead, this was his mind tricking him. Nevertheless, he turned himself to the new mirror John had bought them, a full body one so John could see his full outfit before he ever went somewhere.

His eyes locked with Moriarty's, "I see myself, and an image of you that my mind is trying to trick me with."

"You don't get it, do you? Moments ago you were about to pass out from the drugs you took, but now, you're as observant as you always were." the Irishman grinned as he stood beside him, letting out a pleased sigh, "I help you, Sherlock, I'm the one that keeps you stable when you're high. You need me, just like I need you."

He frowned, he thought John was always the one that helped him out of these situations, hell even his brother could have helped him out of this. But Jim was always watching from his mind, the man had managed to worm his way into it and engrave himself there. Every time he had made a mistake, Jim was there. He couldn't understand why this happens.

"You must really start to like me," Jim chuckled, sitting back down and picking up his tea.

"What would ever give you that idea?"

"You've stopped calling me as Moriarty, you're starting to call me Jim. It's nice, I like it,"

Sherlock picked up his coat and shrugged it onto his shoulders, "Do me a favour Jim," he turned his head to him, "Just shut up and stay out of my head."

Jim let out a short laugh as Sherlock walked out of his flat, locking the door, just in case something like his previous adventures happened again.