It was starting to hurt instead of help, but Sherlock couldn't help but want it. Not for the first time in he didn't know how long, he slid a needle into his vein and pumped cocaine into his bloodstream. And this time, it ached, but the sort of ache that makes you feel alive.

And that's what he wanted right now. He'd been running for too long, trying to keep up the image of being dead, trying to stave off the sting of those three words: "I'm a fake." So he sat on the sofa in the run-down flat, staring at the ceiling, getting lost in the high and his mind for a few minutes before it wore off and he felt like crap again.

More.

He tied again, injected again. Again. Again. Again. He was binging, but the fading highs left him feeling drained and useless. It was bad enough that they thought he was dead, that he was on the run. It was worse that his name had become filth. Normally, he didn't care, but being perceived as a fraud meant he'd likely never have a case again and all the cases he'd ever worked on would be called into question, too.

He woke up on the table, a phone number on a slip of paper in his hand. He looked at it, confused, head aching, already yearning for another dose. He went to the basin and started lathering for a shave when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, eyes hollow and empty. It was killing him. His drug use had become almost as bad as it had been before Mycroft had brought him home, when he was the wild teenager he used to be, full of drugs and apathy, his brother bringing him back to safety. He didn't remember the previous night. He shaved, frowning.

"Stop it." He was admonishing himself, verbally, hoping that for once, he'd listen. But it was a futile gesture and he knew it. He leaned over the sink, staring as the water swirled down the drain, needle-induced bruises up and down his left arm, scarring. He'd returned to the darkness and there was never any going completely back.

He'd been in Treviso too long—someone was eventually going to make the connection. It was time to leave. He packed up his things and headed out the door. He checked his prepaid phone and his heart sank. He didn't realize it had been six weeks since he started the drugs again, five months since Bart's. He thought it had been four at most since he'd buckled to the old addiction. He folded his arms, cross with himself for breaking his promise not only to himself but to Mycroft. He was tired, alone, and craving another injection. But he had to wait before he left Italy. He boarded a train and sat as far away from people as he possibly could, not only afraid someone would deduce the weary nights staring at the water spots on the wall, tracing them with his racing mind, but also that they'd recognize him.

He never carried any cocaine with him, never stupid enough to let customs men find it. He knew the sort of person to get it from, knew all the signs, and he spoke enough languages to be able to ask the people who knew where the dealers were. Not only did the drugs help fight the hunted feeling, the depression seeping in, but it helped fight the endless boredom. He had nothing to do, no job, the only money coming in was via wire transfer from Mycroft (who was somehow not questioning where relatively large sums of money were going—but this was Mycroft, he probably already knew), and no way to spend his days except hiding in various low-income flats wherever he could get one that didn't ask questions. He clenched his left fist, wondering how long the trip would last.

The lunch cart came. Not hungry. Pass. How much longer? He began bouncing his foot, agitated. Not only were his cravings growing monstrous, but so too was the knowledge that on a train, you had nowhere to go should you find yourself amongst enemies. Agatha Christie had made such a situation famous.

Eventually the border crossing was upon them, and after a quick customs stop, he was in Slovenia. Darkness was falling and the cravings were biting hard. It was all he could do to keep from shoving people in his rush to get off the train, to find a dealer, to find somewhere to sleep—he would have forgotten his bag if a kind elderly gentleman hadn't reminded him of it.

And there he was, Sherlock Holmes no more, because Sherlock Holmes was dead and he just happened to look like him. He was in a grotty hotel, tying off the tourniquet, hating himself for slipping, but then the drugs mingled with his brain and he didn't mind a bit.