Author's note: I decided to write another chapter, mainly because I'll be busy in the next few days – and I want to say thanks to all my followers. Since so many people are interested in this story, maybe I'm not alone in my weirdness. That gives me hope.

I don't won anything, and please review.

While he makes breakfast, Sherlock tries to think logically. Which, admittedly, is quite difficult when your landlady is the abused wife of a man who should have died more than a decade ago, one of your friends who's never been drunk as far as you know has just passed out in a stupor in front of you, your best friend/flatmate just happens to have disappeared, and you're high standing in the kitchen of your drunk friend trying to make breakfast which whatever he happens to have in there, besides alcohol.

Just as Sherlock is trying to cook the eggs –

His head aches, and he's in a room with a white ceiling, and a short man with blond hair is looking at him worriedly and asking "Sherlock?" and –

But then he's back in Lestrade's kitchen, and he shakes his head and decides he's going to think about why he suddenly saw John later.

Or, no – he's going to deal with it now, because maybe, just maybe, he might manage to make some sense of what happened today.

Yesterday afternoon, he left the flat with John. Of that he is certain.

And then...

He woke up somewhat before nine o'clock today, probably around seven, as it took him a lot of time to search the house and get out.

He woke up in a world where he's an addict, Mrs. Hudson doesn't recognize him and lives with the abusive husband that should have been executed, and Lestrade is an alcoholic. And John is still missing.

Well, apart from the hallucination he just had, that is.

So, what is going on?

There are several possibilities.

He could be hallucinating. But when has a hallucination ever been this real? And when has it ever made so much sense? And this whole... world feels much too real. He can feel everything, the needle marks, the warmth that by now has saved him from hypothermia, the withdrawal symptoms, the rush of the drugs.

He could be in a coma. Again, everything feels so real. Much too real.

This could all be a dream... But he can remember everything that's happened since he woke up today, there haven't been any weird changes of time or scenery and he even fell asleep not long ago. It doesn't seem very probable, all things considered.

He could have gone mad. But he hasn't shown any symptoms of – may it be schizophrenia or paranoia or something else, before. John wouldn't have missed it. He's a doctor, after all. You don't leave your flat, go mad and suddenly find yourself in a different universe, all of a sudden.
But, then, if that isn't true, why would he see John and feel himself lying in a room with a white ceiling? But, then, he is high at the moment, so...
And, anyway, if he's mad, he'll never make sense of anything that's happened today, and he needs his world to make sense, has always needed his world to make sense. He's lost if his world doesn't make sense. So he chooses to ignore the madness theory, if only for that reason. Then he thinks of the words he just used to describe this experience.

Different universe... Could that be? Could he suddenly have landed in a parallel universe, where... Sherlock shakes his head. Must be the drugs. It's highly unlikely.

But he won't come any farther until Lestrade wakes up, and they try to make sense of this together. True, there's this fear in him that the DI won't recognize him, just like Mrs. Hudson, but, in a way, they have grown quite close since his return, and a sentimental part of him refuses to believe that Lestrade could simply forget all of this – the cases, Sherlock's fall, Sherlock's death, his return. The DI is an important part of his past, whether he believes it or not.

True, he would like to have more than eggs and jam and toast to make breakfast with, but he's had worse things to eat in three years he spent dead.

He's pretty sure there's mildew on the plate he just put the old bread on, but he has to keep it somewhere while he eats, and if he doesn't eat, he just might starve after all, like John always said he would.

Luckily, Lestrade wakes up at this moment, judging from the groaning that's coming from the living room. Sherlock thinks he has been asleep about an hour, but he'll see once he brings the DI his breakfast. He piles the eggs and the toast and the jam on the only clean plate he can find – the others are stapled in the sink, and he'd rather not know for how long, though it would probably make an interesting experiment – and goes to his friend.

The DI is still far from sober, but at least he's conscious and able to take in his surroundings. He looks at Sherlock strangely.

"I... know... you..." he finally manages to croak out, and Sherlock is maybe more happy about that than he should be, as he places the plate in front of him, or rather next to him on the sofa, as the closest table in side happens to be the desk in one corner of the room, and he doesn't want to watch Lestrade trying to stand up. Maybe now they can work something out. Maybe now this nightmare will end. He's almost tempted to say "Well done, Inspector".

However, all his hopes are dashed when his friend exclaims "You are that addict that stumbled on my crime scene a few years back... did talk a lot, but didn't make a whole lot of sense. Whatever are you doing in my flat?"

There are a lot of things Sherlock could say right now. He could even leave without a word if he wanted to. The DI is in no condition to stop him. But, instead, all he's gone through today finally catches up with him – the drugs, the cold, John missing, Mrs. Hudson not recognizing him. This is the final straw.

"So, you call this a flat, Greg?" he asks, hotly, "Because I would rather call this a dump. Really, when did you decide that living like a human being was to chic for you? And what happened to the photos?"

Lestrade, in his drunk state, obviously tries to make sense of all this, but ultimately fails. "Greg..." he finally answers. "Not a lot of people call me that, these days. Not since the wife threw me out. She was the last one".

A wave of pity he's quite unprepared for makes Sherlock's heart clench, and he takes a deep breath.

"Get yourself, together, will you? We need to talk... try to eat something, it will sober you up."

And then, finally, Sherlock sees something of the Lestrade – Greg – he knows, because the DI looks him up and down and says "I will, if you will. You look so thin, I should be able to arrest you for that."

They eat in silence, for almost half an hour, and Sherlock is very grateful for the food indeed, which John would probably snigger at. Will snigger at. Once he finds him.

After the meal, Lestrade seems to be sobered up enough to talk. Although it's still quite clear that he doesn't care that a "druggie" is currently sitting in his flat. Does he really care so little about his life?

"Thanks for that, anyway. So what are you doing here..." He pauses for a moment and it gives Sherlock a stab to know what he's searching for. "Sherlock" he helps out, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, good then, I'll stick to the first name since you know mine, Sherlock – what are you doing in my flat? How did you get in, by the way?"

"I picked the lock" Sherlock admits, because he's sure Greg won't arrest him. The man doesn't seem to be capable of caring about anything at the moment, and breaking and entering was never one of the things he took a particular interest in – otherwise Angelo would have been prosecuted far more severely, all those years ago.

"Well, aren't you an honest junkie" Greg chuckles, but his eyes remain empty.

"Seeing as "junkie" is most commonly applied to heroin addicts, and I'm addicted to cocaine, I think I'm more of an honest crackhead" Sherlock shoots back, and suddenly, there's something like the old light in Greg's eyes as he laughs.

"all I know is that I arrested you a few years back because you stumbled onto my crime scene, let you go after it was proven you were innocent, and I never saw you again, and suddenly you're sitting in my flat, but I don't think I've eaten or laughed that much in years, so you're welcome to stay. And if you should decide to kill me in my sleep – well, at least it'll all be over, right?"

Sherlock winces at that, and the next thing to come out of his mouth is "Have you really given up?"

"What do you expect me to do, mate? Wife gone, and I haven't cared about my job for years now – too many we didn't catch. And it's not like I have any close friends."

The knowledge that Greg turned into this because he was frustrated they didn't catch enough criminals proves almost too much for Sherlock, but he manages not to shudder. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure" Greg answers, eying the bottles lying around, and Sherlock has the sinking feeling that even if he can convince him of the truth, it's going to be difficult to keep him away from the next bar.

"So – we met once, right? You arrested me, I was innocent, you let me go. That was it? You never offered me to work with you?"

Greg looks at him dumbly "Why would I offer a jun- a crackhead to work with me?"

Sherlock tells him everything he deduced about him the minute he walked through the door, and he blinks slowly.

"Okay, if you had acted like this, maybe I would have. But you didn't. You were way too high to say anything but your name, really."

Another thought finds his way into Sherlock's mind. "When was this – exactly?"

Greg frowns. "About... five years ago? Yeah, must have been. Divorce had just been finalized, though she kicked me out another three years before that..."

But Sherlock isn't listening to the DI's rambling about his ex-wife. So, Mrs. Hudson doesn't know him, which probably means he never met her, in this scenario. And he only met DI Lestrade in passing, about five years ago, when he should have been working with him for five years already.

And when he should have just have met...

"Which case?" he interrupts Greg. "On which crime scene did you arrest me?"

Greg tries to think. "Ahem, suspicious suicides? Yeah, that was it... Seven suspicious suicides in one year, all took the same poison, all found in a place they had no reason to be. Never found out what happened, though".

So, Jeff Hope was never caught. So Sherlock never knew about Moriarty.

Which means Moriarty might be...

"You alright, mate? You look a bit pale all of a sudden."

"I'm fine" Sherlock snaps. "At least I'm still high and not looking for the next fix."

Greg laughs a bitter laugh at that. "Well, that's how it goes, I guess." But then he looks at Sherlock, really looks at him, and it seems like he has a déjà vue of some sorts, because there's a sort of recognition in his eyes, but then it's gone and he shakes his head. "Sorry about that. Now, what did I want – Right. You haven't told me yet why you're here."

So that's it then. No more stalling. Either Greg will believe him, or he'll chase him out of the flat, and he'll most likely freeze to death.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins to explain.

Author's note: I know, I know, but I need to give Sherlock some place to breathe and shield himself from hypothermia, right? Plus, it's not like it's going to be easy, with Lestrade an alcoholic. And I can't help it, I love their relationship so much – maybe because we don't see that much about it on the show, but it's clear the trust and care about one another. And the fact that Sherlock is played by Benedict Cumberbatch and Lestrade is played by Rupert Graves has nothing to do with it at all. Honestly.

I hope you liked it, please review.