Author's note: Over 30 followers for a story?! Omg, I've never had that many before... So, better get on with it then. And, yes, he is finally looking for John. Needless to say, it's a rather important, and, I fear, sad chapter. Oh, and a warning for drunk Lestrade (the way his dialogue is written is supposed to present something like drunk speech. I've never written something like it before, so I hope it's somewhat readable). Why do I enjoy to torture all my favourite characters so much? Maybe I'm just crazy. Or incurably sherlocked. Or both. Or maybe the terms are interchangeable.

I still don't own anything, and please review.

As the door of Mycroft's mansion closes behind him, Sherlock can feel the last remains of the cocaine leaving his bloodstream, and the coke bugs crawling all over his skin. Luckily, he hasn't given his brother his word not to get high during the twenty-four hours. If he wants to find John, he needs to have all his wits about him, and for that, as much as he may loathe admitting it, he needs the drug. Preferably fast, before the headache, dizziness and exhaustion make another appearance.

He might not remember the life he has stranded in – for lack of a better word – but he still knows where best to score some coke in this city.

So he takes the tube again, and soon walks through streets that can barely be called such. Sure enough, there's another corner, another suspicious shade. This time, he buys the shade out. He doesn't want to lose another one of his precious twenty-four hours left to hope and to find a way out of this nightmare by searching for a dealer. He might not have any money left at the end of the transaction, but at least he'll be good until tomorrow, as long as he always finds a place to stick the needle in his arm without being observed. And that will be easy enough. There's always a quiet place to shoot up in London, if you know how and where to look.

He does it in a public restroom, for the time being, that certainly hasn't been cleaned for at least a year. But it fulfils the purpose. Thank God he still has the needle he bought outside Greg's.

Which reminds him. He might not be able to come and take Greg with him on his search – a high drug addict and an alcoholic DI together would most likely be less effective than the addict alone – but he promised him to return, and while Sherlock hasn't had any problems with breaking promises in the past, he can't help remembering how empty Greg's eyes looked, and how he had come to not care about anything, really, and should he – once he returns to Mycroft and starts the detox, he wants Greg to remember him. Maybe, just maybe, after he's clean, he can help him quit the booze and they can get back some semblance of what they had before.

Unless this world is the delusion.

But how? He didn't take any drugs, and mental illnesses don't fabricate entire worlds upon their first symptoms. Is he lying in a coma somewhere? Then, what happened?

He wishes he was home. His home, where Mrs. Hudson berates him for shooting at the wall, John pesters him to eat, and Lestrade tries to call him in as often as possible.

But he can't have that, apparently, so he'll take the next best thing, and at the moment, that's first calling Greg and then trying to find John, and maybe, possibly, hopefully, once he has...

Not enough data. Stick to the plan. Call Greg.

He uses the internet connection to access the phone book, once again, and sure enough, there's his mobile number.

He picks up just as Sherlock has convinced himself he's too drunk to bother finding his phone. Although his theory wasn't so far from the truth.

"Hello, Greg, it's me."

"Sh... sh... Sherlock" the DI slurs into the phone. "That you? Had alllllmossssssssst given up ho-hope you'd show up." He laughs. "And you diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiidn't. You just called, so you're not here."

"Correct, Greg. A very correct deduction." Sherlock tries to stay calm, but some part of him desperately wants to scream at the DI. It's almost physically painful to hear his slur his speech like that, and, for once, Sherlock is glad he doesn't have to see something.

"What did I say, about not drinking yourself into a stupor?" he asks instead of screaming.

"I'm not ina stupor. Im still talling, ain't I? So I'm not unconsc- unconsci- Im not asleep."

He can't say anything against that, really. "Listen, Greg, do you happen to have a paper and a pen near you?"

"Yeeeeeeaaaahhhhhh, whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy?" the DI almost whines, and Sherlock ignores the impulse to hold the phone at arm's length.

""because I am going to tell you something, and we both know you'll most likely not remember I called when you're sober again, so I want you to write it down."

"All clear, 'lock. Wait a moment". And then he hears groaning and bottles rolling around – good God, he must have been lying on the floor – and finally, after what seems like an eternity, Greg says "Pen and paper, all there now. Whatdoyawaynt?"

"I am trying to find John" Sherlock dictates, and he can't suppress the smile when he hears the DI murmur the words before writing them down. Greg's always had this habit, and while he usually manages not to do it in front of witnesses, he's never hidden it from Sherlock. Some things don't change, at least, and that's a comfort.

"And I'm currently nowhere near your flat, and don't have the time to get you, I'm sorry, so just wait for my next call. Did you get that?"

Greg grumbles "Donyalietome, druggie. You just don wanna have a drunk DI with ya."

"That seems to be another possible explanation, yes." Sherlock doesn't have the patience to lie. It was almost four o' clock in the afternoon when he left Mycroft's house, buying and taking the cocaine has cost him another hour, and he would definitely prefer to conduct his search for John in daylight, or what little of it is left. He doesn't have the time to try to be nice...

The room, the ceiling, Mycroft. "You know, brother mine, everybody's worried about you. I would definitely prefer it if you would – "

No time for that now, either.

"Greg, I will call. As soon as I've found John. All right?"

"Allrightthen. But don ya come cryin to me when he doesn know you either". The DI hangs up, and Sherlock assumes he must be a little angry that he doesn't want him to accompany him. But there is much, much more at stake than Greg's ego.

Judging from John's blog entries, he has moved several times in the past five years. And, since he doesn't seem to care where he lives anymore, the phone book won't be of much help; Sherlock's rather certain his friend hasn't registered any change of address the last few times he moved.

So, process of elimination, then.

Cheap accommodation. Thinking of the blog entries again, Sherlock decides it's probably going to be rather nasty and ugly. His leg is still hurting John, so somewhere within a certain radius to a shop. And a tube, when possible. Near his therapist? No, John has most likely stopped going to his appointments.

Still, that's quite enough to pinpoint a certain area where John might be expected to live. There aren't many areas in London that are so unpopular that you can find a cheap flat near a tube station and a supermarket.

Sherlock can only think of two "districts" who fit the criteria, and both of them aren't very big. They are also quite far from each other, sadly, so he decides where John is more likely to live – the teashop that's next to the supermarket according to his Google search is an important clue – and sets out.

The tube ride is long, again, and he desperately wills the train to go faster. He has to find John. His last hope. His last try before accepting what Mycroft wants him to accept.

"This would hurt much less if you would just accept and lie still, honey" the woman says. "You really shouldn't have told the police that my right-hand man was one of their own. Now you have to bear the consequences." The flask full of acid tips again, and this time, Sherlock feels a sharp pain at his thigh. "I just said, lie still. You're not doing yourself any favours."
At least the pain makes him act, and he manages to free himself with almost superhuman strength and escape. He brings down the whole organization a few days later. The acid burn on his thigh takes his time to heal, and will most certainly leave behind a scar...

Sherlock rubs a hand over his thigh and winces at the memory.

Accepting wouldn't have made it hurt any less. Accepting just means giving up.

He arrives at his destination just at dusk.

The street is gloomy, and empty. There's the tube station, there is the supermarket, there is the tea shop. And out of the tea shop just comes...

Someone who causes him to feel everything at the same time.

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. He'd know this person anywhere, from the blond and by now slowly greying hair over the awful jumper he's wearing under his oh-so-familiar- jacket with the patches at the elbows to the –

Limp. Another stab in Sherlock's heart. He remembers John limped when they first met – of course he does, everything about John is safely stored in his mind palace – but his limp was never this bad. His leg must be giving him a lot of trouble today.

At least he hopes it's only today that his leg gives him that much trouble.

And at the same time, he feels unspeakable relief, because John is alive, he hasn't committed suicide.

Yet. The part of him that's always deducing, can never seem to stop it, really, has seen what he's trying not to realize. The way John's shoulders sag. How he didn't look back and hold the door open for the old lady who exited the shop after him. How he tries to stay in the shadows, even at dusk, even in an almost empty street, like he wishes he could just disappear.

John has given up, and it is only a matter of time before he decides that he might as well...

No. This is not going to happen, Sherlock is going to prevent it, even if he will be locked up for months in Mycroft's house afterwards, even if John doesn't recognize him, which seems likely. More than likely, in fact. But the world needs people like John Watson in it, and Sherlock is going to show him this, at any costs.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing, he's jogging after his friend-in-another-life.

"John! John Watson!"

Either John doesn't hear, or he doesn't want to hear, which is an even worse sign. The John Sherlock knew always turned around when someone called his name – you never knew when someone needed your help, after all. And if there was someone who has helpfulness personified, it was John Watson.

So, Sherlock does what he did during the Baskerville case, so long ago, and turns John around by clinging to his left arm.

And what he sees is worse than anything he could have imagined.

Not the hollowness in John's eyes – he could imagine so much, from the way his friend walked. But the hostility in them. The look that says I don't know who you are, but get lost immediately because I don't care.

Sherlock is unable to say anything for a moment, and John frees his arm. "What do you want, junkie? Yeah, that's right, don't look so surprised, I used to be a doctor, I know someone's high when I see them. You know, I didn't turn around because I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. To. Anybody. So get lost. As soon as possible. Now."

"John..." Sherlock desperately struggling for words. What he gets out is, "I know this sounds crazy, but listen to me... We weren't supposed to be like this. We should have met five years ago. We... we would have saved each other."

John's eyes turn even harder, if that's possible. "And how?"

"You... you didn't have the limp after you had met me. You made sure I ate and slept. We solved crimes. You laughed, you dated some rather annoying women. You had a job at Bart's. You... you were my best friend. Please, John, believe me, this is how it should have been."

"Then you should have turned up then" is all he answers, then he turns around.

"John, please... could be dangerous" Sherlock stammers, as a last resort.

This time, his best friend doesn't even turn around. He just continues walking away from Sherlock, who remains standing in the street.

The last part of his old life gone.

Forever.

Author's note: Like I said, an important and rather sad chapter. It was important to me to show that particular scene in such a way – John rejecting him without even bothering to try to find out what's going on, so it's made clear that he isn't even living without Sherlock around.

I still don't know how many more chapters this is going to have – it somehow continues to grow. Not that I have anything against it, just thought I should warn you guys, because – again – I have followers! And people who favourited this story! Someone's reading my stuff! I'm happy.

But enough rambling. I hope you liked the chapter, and please review.