Author's note: Hello, my friends. I have to warn you: I only just realized that this could easily become my most ambitious story to date. Yes, I just did. Why? Because, as usual, I started writing this without thinking much about it, that's how my mind works, when it comes to writing, that is. And there's major angst ahead. And this is probably going to be quite long – seriously, I'm starting to fear that all of this is still just the setup for the major part of the story. But we'll see.

And, if you still want to continue reading, I'm really thankful.

Also, I should probably point out, which you of course already know, that this takes place post-reunion. My timeline works like this: Sherlock met John when he was 35, John 40. They lived together for one and a half years, then Sherlock disappeared for three years, and this story takes place about half a years after his return. I hope that's not too confusing. As I hope the whole story is not too confusing.

I don't own anything, and please review.

Once the door closes behind him, he thinks about his situation and realizes finding John might be a little more difficult than he thought.

He has money, at least, and he's in a city he knows, a city whose map he has known by heart ever since he first came to live in it, the city he calls home.

But –

First, of all, he's high. He might not have injected that much cocaine – certainly less than he used to before he quit, mainly because there wasn't much more in the cookie jar – bit, in a way, that's also a problem.

The high he can handle. But, soon enough, the withdrawal symptoms will start again; he doesn't think it will take more than two hours at the most. And he isn't sure he'll be able to find John in that time.

And he only has a jacket on, true, an improvement to the way it was before, with only the T-Shirt and jeans, but still – he misses his coat. And the apparently old sneakers aren't exactly appropriate footwear for the weather either.

He also doesn't have his phone with him – though, all things considered, that would probably have been close to a miracle. So he can't look up any newspaper reports, or missing persons.

"Here, use mine".

But all of this, it's just ignoring the elephant in the room, and he knows it.

What is going on? Why did he wake up in an abandoned building, apparently a cocaine addict? What happened? How could it happen?

He shakes his head. These questions will have to wait for a time when he isn't high, exhausted, cold and soon-to-be-suffering from withdrawal symptoms; first of all, he has to find John.

But where should he start his search?

The crime scene they were supposed to go? Highly unlikely. Once he had disappeared, John would have come looking for him.

So... did they get him too?

But why leave him drugged in an abandoned building and take John with them? If they wanted to blackmail Sherlock into doing something, they'd have left a note.

But they didn't.

So does that mean John is –

No. Always act like the victim – if John even is a victim, that is – is still alive. It's rule number one in such cases.

So where to?

The Yard?

He doubts they'd be able to help him, even if they wanted to; well, Lestrade would want to, but what could he do? True, he might get some information, but that could probably be summed up with "You and John went missing and we're looking for you."
But anyone clever enough to kidnap him would be smart enough to cover his tracks too.

And, although that really shouldn't keep from doing anything that might help find his flatmate, he doesn't want the Yarders to see him this way. Donavan and Anderson have never really believed that he actually gave up the drugs to solve crimes, most of the others are either afraid or jealous of him or both, and Greg –

"I'm clean."
"Is your flat?"

He doesn't want to disappoint him, as unbelievable as that sounds. He doesn't want Greg to see him like this.

Poorly dressed. High. An addict once again.

So, where to?

In the end, it's easy. If you don't know where to start, go back to where it all began.

He'll go to their flat. Maybe John is there. Maybe Mrs. Hudson is there. But there's definitely a phone there, and an internet connection. Something useful.

And he feels safe there. And, right know, that certainly sounds like heaven. Once he's back in their flat, he can figure how what to do next – and how to deal with the withdrawal symptoms.

But, first of all, he has to get there.

He has money, at least – although it is coming from Mycroft, and although it's clear it must be stolen. Because Mycroft would part with his wallet, if he had to, but he'd never let go of that picture. Sherlock doesn't think his brother knows that he's aware he even possesses it. Mycroft probably wouldn't want him to know.

He found out, years ago, while he was detoxing in his brother's mansion, and in a rare lucid moment, he left his room and wandered about the house. He found Mycroft asleep on the sofa, clutching the picture. Which is why he always, even if he never admitted it, trusted his brother. And cared for him, just a little.

Which was probably why it hurt so much when he found out –

He stares at the newspaper article and realizes, knows, that there's only one person who could have given Moriarty all this information. It's not easy, keeping his expression neutral and not telling John; however, later, much later, he gets told by Mycroft that John actually stormed into the Diogenes club because of it.

No time for that now. Back in the box with the memory.

He doesn't have time either for contemplating how the wallet came to be in his possession. It's stolen, that he knows. And Sherlock himself is the only person in London who could have stolen it, that he knows too.

And, until today, he has hoped – desperately hoped – that he won't ever have to use stolen money to get where he wants again.

How he abhors it, taking money from the parts of Moriarty's web he has killed or brought behind bars before the police closes their accounts. But he has no other choice. His next target – in Guatemala – has been warned, and he has to get there as quickly as possible –

But there are more pressing matters at hand.

The high won't last for much longer, and he has to get home.

A cab would be the most desirable option, but he doesn't think he'll get one here – even though John has nicknamed him "the cab-magnet". But maybe, once he gets to the main road –

Much as he abhors walking around in this weather, completely alone.

The snow is piling up, and it feels like the wind actually takes bites out of him. If he stays out here too long, he'll freeze to death, never mind the coat and the gloves. Of course his target would flee from Belarus to Siberia to escape him, it's just his luck. But if he doesn't find and eliminate him, he'll never get home –

Main road it is, then.

He's quite thankful no one's around, because he finds it quite difficult to walk in a straight line. He doesn't remember being high being this unpleasant, but then again, he was younger when he used for the last time.

And not so broken by memories he tries to keep in their room rather unsuccessfully.

Once he gets to the main road, things get easier and more complicated at the same time.

Easier, because there are actually cabs around, thank God.

More complicated, because there are also people around, and while he's used to people staring at him, him being a rather tall and eccentric consulting detective, he's not used to them looking at him with disgust in their eyes – as long as they don't know him, at least. Once they do, he isn't bothered by it. But the way complete strangers now cross the street just so they don't have to walk next to him –

As if his day wasn't difficult enough already.

The first three cabs won't take him. He shouldn't be surprised really; while some cab drivers won't do drunks, almost all of them won't do druggies.

Especially high ones.

However, when he manages to show the fourth cabbie just how much money he has and promises to pay him twice the usual amount, he finally gets to enter the cab and drive home. True, the cabbie still shoots him suspicious looks – after all, he could still carry a knife or something like that and try to rob him when he carries that much cash around with him, idiot – but he brings him to Baker Street.

Sherlock looks out the window the entire ride. Something's troubling him.

It's still the London he knows, but something's amiss. He can't put a finger on it; it's like looking at an old photograph and not realizing what's troubling you, until you realize that the colours have slightly faded. But he'll find out soon enough, he's sure. Or hopes he's sure.

By a watch that's hanging outside a supermarket, he learns that it's nine o' clock in the morning. So he's missing at least eighteen hours. He chooses not to speculate what they could have done to John in that time. It's dangerous to speculate without data, after all.

"You should have known better" the woman says, in English but with a rather heavy Austrian accent, "than to try to beat me. To think you could just gather enough to bring me in jail – well, I would say tell everyone about it, but I'm afraid you won't be able to." She squeezes the trigger.
Luckily, the pistol jams and he manages to escape.
Three days later, the woman is arrested, because he found enough evidence to prove she's responsible for quite a lot of the forgeries of Renaissance painters that have been around lately.

This time, the cab stopping saves him from his memory. He wishes he could delete them, but deleting memories is almost impossible and could be quite dangerous; he doesn't know how his mind would react, what it would make up to fill the blanks. So he shoves them back into their room. Like now.

"There we are, mate" the cabbie says, still not friendly or politely, but at least he's taken him where he wants to be. So he gives him the unbelievably huge fare and gets out with a "Thank you, goodbye". And, to the cabbies credit, he actually looks back while turning and driving off, to make sure Sherlock got safely off the street, at least, although Sherlock doesn't see it, because he's staring at the front door of 221B.

He frowns. The front door, the whole front of the house, really, normally so well kept –

The colour's peeling off. There are no curtains in any window. And, since because of the lack of curtains he can see into Mrs. Hudson's living room, he can tell that it is in a similar deplorable state, although he still recognizes the hand of his housek– landlady in the way a few flowers stand on the table, or the room has clearly just been dusted.

But what are the empty bottles doing on the sofa?

The house is a mess, he can see it from the outside. It's a disgrace to Baker Street.

It breaks the heart he finally had to admit he possesses, three years ago, when he stood on a rooftop looking down at John.

But all of that – he has to knock. Mrs. Hudson must be there; she doesn't go to the shops before ten o' clock, she enjoys her morning tea while listening to the radio.

So he knocks.

The steps he hears should have been a warning, maybe; they are much, much too heavy for his dear Mrs. Hudson.

But that thought does nothing to help with the shock when the door opens and he finds himself standing in front of Mr. Hudson.

The man whose execution he ensured more than ten years ago.

Who's clearly still as much an alcoholic and abusive husband as he was then.

And in London.

Alive.

He looks him up and down and then asks, with a sneer, "What d'you want, druggie?"

It takes Sherlock a few moments to find words, but then he asks, much more timidly than he wanted, "Can I speak to Mrs. Hudson, please?"

"Mrs? You here to talk to me wife, eh?" Then he shouts, in a much too loud voice, really, the whole street can probably hear him, "Come here, got another lost cause for ya!"

He hears Mrs. Hudson shuffle into the hallway, and then he sees her, and –

There are bruises on her arms, and she doesn't try to hide them, like she did when they met. She's also not impeccably dressed, as usual; rather, she's wearing a house gown that has clearly seen better days. She doesn't wear any makeup, and her hair is in disarray.

But worst of all are her lifeless eyes.

This is a woman that has given up and has nowhere to go.

And it's clear that she doesn't recognize Sherlock.

But, because she still is Mrs. Hudson, her voice does have a tone of pity when she asks, "What is it, dear?"

He stutters. "Mrs. Hudson, it's me, Sherlock, John's missing, I need your help, please – "

She shakes her head. "I'm awfully sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anyone named John, and I'd certainly remember your – what was your name again? I'm afraid my hearing isn't quite what it used to be – "

Sherlock opens his mouth, to explain, to beg, he's not sure, but he doesn't even get the chance to say a word before Mr. Hudson exclaims "There, ya see, she doesn't know ya. So get lost. Or fin another needle or something". He slams the door.

And Sherlock's standing in front of the one place he called home, shivering, slowly coming off the high.

Alone.

Author's note: So, did I manage to surprise you? Hope you liked it, and please review, I'm so curious what you all think.