Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story. The characters, etc. belong to their respective creators. Spoilers up through 2.3 of the BBC Sherlock. I won't apologize for what seemed like a crack!fic idea turning into not-as-mild-as-I-thought angst. But I hope you enjoy!

If I Only Had...

It's strange, the things one remembers when one is cold, alone, and attending one's own funeral. From behind the trees, still breathing, despite the best efforts of, well, the villain of the story. Though Sherlock hates to think of his life as just a story, John's blogging (why does it need a title?) has led him to think in such untidy terms. Certainly, the only reason he's thinking about this at all is because John is so angry, and Sherlock really would like for this mess to be over, so that he can go home. Odd. He's never really had a home.

But he can still picture the scene at Baker Street—John, trying too hard to please his latest girlfriend (and Sherlock really does hope that one day John will find someone not-boring enough to decide to stay, because he'd like John to be happy, because things like happiness are important to John) and Sherlock in the kitchen, ostensibly working on an experiment, but directing a small portion of his attention to the telly, where John's girlfriend is forcing him to watch some old movie or other.

Sherlock thinks there's altogether too much singing, and can't understand how anyone could conceive of flying monkeys, and knows before the girl has even started out that the witch will come back as a dues ex machina to save the day…but what bothers him is the supporting characters, singing, irritatingly, about the things they wish they had. If I only had a brain, indeed. But the Scarecrow solved the puzzles, and the Tin Man cared the most, and the Lion did what was needed… Sherlock didn't understand it. Why ask for what was clearly…?

The too-dull-to-see-all-of-John's-good-qualities girlfriend didn't come back after Sherlock blew up his experiment, just to see what her reaction would be and to wash away the memory of all that unfortunate singing. He'd forgotten, until now. He shook his head—trying to concentrate on what John was saying, on anything else, because it had to be more important than "if I only had…"

The Lion

Mycroft sat, so very still, listening to the retreat of Dr. Watson's footsteps. The folder stared up at him, far more accusing than the soldier. Four assassins on Baker Street, it said, but of course something was stopping them from actually killing Sherlock. No doubt some flashy grand finale was planned, and Mycroft rather uncomfortably thought that he could deduce what that would be. But Mycroft hadn't managed to tell Dr. Watson. He was too proud to say he'd made a mistake, whatever the cause. He was too proud to say that this half-explanation was just another mistake in the chain. He told himself that this was not his fault. Sitting frozen, he was far too clever to believe his own lie.

The Wicked Witch

Sally couldn't forget the little girl's screams. That was what did it, really, convinced her that there was something wrong. So she went to Anderson—one footprint, one scream… The footprint bothered Anderson more than the scream, but then, footprints fell into the priority of the forensics team. And to think, all those children had wanted to do was go home at the end of term. Suspicions formed, crystallized…so that was what he'd been laughing about all this time. They had to tell Lestrade. Anything to wipe the smug assurance from that freak's arrogant face.

The Wizard

Lestrade did what he could, of course. He'd be sacked if anyone found out that he had called Dr. Watson, had warned Sherlock that they had a warrant for his arrest. But Sherlock was still sitting at home, and he seemed to have his own plan. He always went off on his own, but it wasn't like he'd ever, well… And suddenly, thinking about it, Lestrade wasn't so sure. Something in him couldn't believe that he'd been wrong for so many years about Sherlock, but he couldn't shake the seeds of doubt (running off with a serial killer cabbie, throwing that American out the window—the little girl's screams earlier). Well. He'd called to warn him. What else could he do?

The Good Witch

Molly hadn't been expecting him, but then, he never turned up when she expected him. She'd assumed that he had dismissed their earlier conversation, hoped he'd forgotten her stupidity in thinking that she mattered. But when he looked at her, almost (no, he couldn't be) scared, and said that she had always counted, she knew immediately what he meant to say, and was surprised to see he meant it. Maybe not the way she'd not-so-secretly been hoping for, but it explained so much. About everything he'd done. And not done. And said. And it didn't matter what impossible thing he needed. She was, somehow, going to make this better.

The Scarecrow

It was that night at the pool all over again. Oh, of course, he wouldn't repeat himself so clumsily, but honestly. One line of code. That he'd left, er, 'hidden' in Sherlock's head. It was just another excuse, really, to get him to come out and play. Watching him dance, struggling to put all the pieces together. Surely he should have seen it was just another decoy, surely Sherlock Holmes shouldn't have been struggling… It was too easy. He felt somehow, yes, 'cheated' was the word. How boring. Sherlock had become so boring. Like a payout for a triple break-in. Like a gunman for each and every person Sherlock cared about (each and every insult to this battle of wits and their superior intellects). Like breathing. Surely, after all this time, there was someone left who had wit enough to understand that?

Dorothy

He shouldn't have gone. He shouldn't have let Sherlock bait him. But for the past few months, ever since he'd met Sherlock, he'd been torn between two worlds, and two, well, two different Johns. There was the John that dropped everything at a moment's notice and ran off, desperately trying to keep up as Sherlock's unique road opened up before him, offering an escape. And there was the John who cared, more than anything, about chips, and bad shows on the telly, and going to work, and helping people for the sake of helping them and not for the story… He'd let the caring John win, and now he was left with the proof to Sherlock's theory that people who cared too much did stupid things. When he closes his eyes, he still sees him falling. Because John is a doctor, whatever else he might pretend to be, and he wants to save everyone.

The Tin Man

His mind is racing, desperate to find another way to win this, because he'd rather not have to fall… But, since he's run out of options, he does what he knew he would have to do all along, and puts on the role of a lifetime, the wind not quite managing to pull tears from his eyes. Who knew it would be so hard, even if this only looks like losing? It feels like losing, as he lies to John for more or less the first time. Tricked him, yes, on occasion, and withheld information more often than not, but never outright lied. And he wants to do something, to say something, to give the game away, but John's a terrible liar, and he has to believe this performance. An illusion only works for as long as the illusionist refuses to give away his method. He's thought long and hard about whether he should do this. He's never had friends before, never had anything to lose, and he's almost certain that he's never wanted it. (Liar—why ask Mycroft if there's something wrong with not caring, otherwise?) But as he falls, wind paradoxically too much resistance and not nearly enough, he remembers the catch in John's voice, not wanting to believe. He's—accepted is the word—accepted Sherlock. And for one friend, or possibly three or four, and that feeling of acceptance that he never really knew he wanted—well, the rapidly approaching crack is worth it.

Sherlock blinked as John finally walked away, and he was left alone in the graveyard. Oh. There it was again, that unfamiliar feeling of wanting to go home. He'd always been outside—outside the family, outside the world, outside the inside joke. But lately, he'd found an odd corner of inside, and he was surprised to find that he missed it. Blinking rapidly, he realized that he'd even figured out the joke to The Wizard of Oz. It wasn't that the characters didn't have what they wanted; it was that they had never noticed that what they wanted was the one thing they had had all along.