Howard doesn't know what's happening. He responds to the command without thinking, information processed on some level below his conscious mind. Thoughts flicker in and out like shorts in the circuit - high ground, keep moving, oh my god I'm bleeding - but nothing sticks for more than a few seconds, as if every bit of juice in his brain is being poured into keeping one foot in front of the other, in keeping his hand clasped in some kind of dead-man's grip over the bag.

If it weren't for Sherlock, he wouldn't have been able to run so far. He nearly knocks Sherlock over at one point as he missteps and his balance goes haywire. He imagines planes; he imagines them crashing, one wing scraping into the earth in a panoply of different sorts of smoke and fire. The ground seems to pull and tug into little vortexes of gravity, like a water bed.

Thankfully, they're well enough away from the Cornucopia when he loses his footing again, one leg overcorrecting for a miss in balance like a hypnic jerk and sending him slamming into Sherlock's side and then into the bright pink ground. "Unn!"