Author's note: I know, I know, yesterday I was all like "Oh, I may not be able to write another chapter for several days" and now... I couldn't help it. Though I have been busy.

Oh, and I had a very serious discussion with my mind.

Me (glances at mind reproachfully): This story is going to take a while, since nothing's been taken care of after five chapters, am I right?

Mind (looks at the floor): Maybe...

Me: So, it's going to be even longer than "Hiding in Plain Sight", isn't it?

Mind (looking guilty): Nooooooooooooooo...

So, yes, I guess it's going to take a while. I will try to upload regularly, because I'm actually quite happy with the way the story is going, and trust me, I'm just as curious as you how this story is going to develop. My mind is a strange place (as proven by the conversation I just recorded for posterity).

Warnings: Turns out, alcoholic Lestrade has a rather dry and sharp wit. I love this kind of humour, and use it myself – almost all the time. But I don't mean to offend. So...

Wow, what a long author's note.

I don't own anything, and please review.

To his credit, Greg listens to Sherlock's rather confused explanation (it's not easy explaining something you yourself aren't even close at comprehending) with all the patience he can muster.

Sherlock has just arrived at the first case with John, the strange serial suicides, the case on which the Inspector claims he saw Sherlock for the first and last time, when Greg raises his right hand.

"All right. Stop there. I've listened for as long as I can without going to the fridge, but right now, I need a drink more than anything."

Sherlock frowns, but he's really in no position to tell Greg off because of his drinking, when he can still feel the cocaine coursing through his veins. So he just nods, and the DI stumbles – he's still not sober, of course not, nobody could be when he'd just stumbled, like he did, into the flat an hour ago – to the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him grabbing a beer and, while he knows it's irrational, the sound the bottle makes when opened almost physically hurts him. Whatever happened to his DI? He knows some of it, but he needs more data.

But that can wait. First of all, he needs to finish his story. Their story, the story Greg doesn't remember, because he has apparently never lived it.

This is all so confusing, and Sherlock tries to pretend Greg's incomprehension doesn't hurt him as much as it does.

The DI lets himself fall on the sofa and takes a big gulp of the beer bottle – enough to drink half of it in one go. No wonder he keeps that many bottles in his fridge and frequents a pub regardless. Just how much does he drink on a normal day?

Greg sighs contentedly and then eyes Sherlock. "So, let me get this straight. Just to be on the safe side. It's rather complicated, you know". He takes a deep breath. "So, you are a..." he searches for the right word.

"Consulting detective" Sherlock helps out and tries to ignore the stab in his heart he fells because Greg can't remember a term he actually helped coin in the first place.

"Right – consulting detective. And you help out the police, and with "police" I mean mostly me." The DI runs his fingers through his rather unkempt hair. "And we met, not five years ago, as I remember it, but something close to ten years ago."

"Correct".

"Though you did stumble on my crime scene, and got arrested for it. And you were an addict even then."

"Yes, but yesterday I wasn't, and we were rather..." Sherlock hesitates. How can he say "friends", when he doubts that even normal Greg knows how much he means to him? "We knew each other quite well."

Greg shoots him a look at that, while taking another sip of his beer, a look Sherlock remembers quite well. John used to give him that look now and then. He rolls his eyes. "Not like that. You are straight, I am asexual. We were useful to one another."

But, as it turns out, an alcoholic DI Greg Lestrade is still more intelligent than most people on the planet. "Good, and because we were only acquaintances who didn't mean much to each other you come to my flat to shoot up" – Sherlock winces – "I might be a drunkard, but do you really think I don't see the needle sticking out of your pocket? And, by the state you are in, you must have had a fix pretty recently, so it's only logical you had a bit of fun before I arrived. And, again, because we meant nothing to each other, you pick me up, carry me to the sofa and make me breakfast. Right. I'm very sure, I'm convinced we were merely "useful" to each other." He smiles, a sort of half-smile, but still, it's a smile, and until now, he's only loved in a semi-bitter way, so Sherlock considers this and improvement. And, because he's rather relieved and ashamed at the same time, if that is possible, he says "I... we were friends, Greg."

Greg actually chuckles at that, and for the first time today, it sounds kind of merry. "Well, like I said – I don't have friend, and nobody calls me Greg, anymore, so... I guess one is better than nothing, though you are a crack head, Sherlock". "Well, yes, seems like I am... in this universe."

Greg looks at him. "You are crazy, you know that, right?" "I think several people in the past have told me exactly the same thing, though I can't say for certain that it was this past".

They look at each other.

Silence reigns for a few moments.

And then they are laughing, actually laughing, without any bitterness, just laughing, and Sherlock can fell a bind being formed. Of course, it's nothing like the old bond he and – Greg shared, but it's a beginning. It's the beginning for making sense of this mess he's somehow woken up to this morning.

"So, again, just to make sure", Greg gasps, "You and I, we are a crime-fighting team in a kind of other universe, and here, we are a drunkard and a crack head but we're still the best around, even though I'm divorced and pretty much almost suspended because I spend way too many days on sick leave in order to get drunk and you can't stay away from cocaine for two hours straight?"

"Yes, that sums it up quite well, I think" Sherlock replies, also trying to get his breath back.

Then Greg suddenly seems to think of something.

"Didn't you just say there's another member in our team of misfits? And that you solved the serial suicides case?"

"Yes, there was. And yes, I did. His name is John Watson." Then Sherlock realizes he should probably explain the context a bit better."The name of our "third member", as you put it. Not of the killer. The killer's name was Jeff Hope, and he was a cabbie, though I suspect he's longs since passed on because of his aneurism, at this point." He decides not to mention Moriarty, for the time being. That is a conversation for a time when they are both – well, not quite, but almost sober, and they're far from it at present.

"I understand... Okay, actually I don't understand a thing, but still, I haven't had that much fun or talked to another human being for that long in ages so I don't care" the DI answers, wiping his eyes.

Then he grows serious, or a serious as this version of Greg can be, apparently. "So... since you tracked me down, I suppose you'll want to find this John Watson, now?"

Something like hope fills Sherlock's jest. "Yes, that's the plan."

"And he's an army doctor – sorry, ex-army doctor, talk about over-achiever – and your best friend and flatmate and – ?"

"Nothing else."

"Right, sorry, asexual. Good. So – wait, if you found me – how did you find me, by the way?"

"Internet. Phone book."

"How silly of me, of course, didn't care enough to have me address protected, but, anyway, if you found me, you can find him, so – why didn't you go to him first?"

Sherlock almost, but not quite, rolls his eyes at the DI. "Because he can't be in our flat, because our landlady doesn't remember me, so she never met John. Obviously."

Greg takes another swig from the bottle. "Sorry, completely obvious. Of course. So, what do you propose we do to find this... guardian angel of consulting detectives?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the comment – not because of the way Greg just talked about John, but about the we. This version of Lestrade seems to trust him very fast, and it's been a while since someone trusted him like this, and it wasn't for the best of them.

"Can you help me find my daddy?" the little girl asks in French, and Sherlock knows he can't very well tell her that he just put her father in a police car and that she probably won't see him again until she's an adult. So he just takes her hand and guides her to a woman from social services."

"Hey, don't get lost in your head on me, mate. I'm just beginning to enjoy this" Greg complains and shoves him with his beer bottle. Sherlock looks at him.

"Why do you trust me? Why do you want to help me?"

"You make a good breakfast, and you don't say anything about me drinking beer at this time of day, and that's good enough for me."

Sherlock's eyes soften. "Greg, why did you start?"

He actually seems to think about his question. "Nobody's ever asked me that before. It was just easier, I suppose. You know, after a hard day, when the bad guys didn't let me catch them, once again, I would just grab a drink and it would disappear, you understand? And, then, slowly, it became more than one drink, and then the wife kicked me out, and Donavan and Anderson like it better to have the crime scenes for themselves, anyway, so why bother? And there's always a new bottle..." his eyes turn dark. "Alcohol doesn't disappoint you, at least. Not like men do." Then he shakes himself, and resumes his air of rather sharp-witted indifference. "But that's not important right now. So, you want ... us to find this ex-army doctor, who's most likely been kidnapped, in this city."

"Yes".

"And then everything's to be alright, as if by magic, and you'll be a clean "consulting detective" and this John will be your live-in flatmate and I'll be the Yard's golden boy."

"Something like it." It's easier to let this Greg talk, Sherlock decides; he usually comes to the right decision, just like the DI he remembers, he just has to ramble while he tries to figure it out. Well, it's not much more annoying than any other quirks of normal human beings.

"Okay..." Greg clicks his tongue. "So, this should be easy. Find a kidnap victim, save him, break the curse or whatever, so we two aren't addicts anymore, and all while trying to keep you high and me drunk enough to function. Don't see any problem at all with that plan."

Sherlock has about enough of this callous view of something very important, so he snaps "I'm glad you don't" which earns him another chuckle,"And now, listen. I have to go to my brother – "

He can't do this without Mycroft's help, he knows it now, although the thought still unnerves him. At least their relationship has got slightly better since he returned from the dead. But still...

No. No time to let this childish feud get between him and John's rescue.

"So, you have a brother? There's two of you? God help us."

"Yes. Mycroft. He's my senior by seven years, and he is the British Government."

"You mean, he works for the Prime Minister or something?"

"No, I mean he is the British Government. And the Secret Service. And the CIA. He controls everything, if you want me to put it this bluntly."

"Fine by me." Greg raises the bottle, that by now must be almost empty, to a mock-salute. "Well, at least the monotony of my life has successfully been killed off. That makes me kind of happy. Or as close to happy as I've been these last few years. So, where do we find him?"

That's easy. Even if Greg is an alcoholic living in an awful flat, even if Mrs. Hudson doesn't recognize him, even if John is nowhere to be found, Mycroft would never, in no reality, move out of his beloved mansion. Sherlock will just have to break in and wait for him, like he just did. "I have a pretty clear idea where he is going to be, and it's not we, it's I. Mycroft doesn't appreciate... " He thinks quickly, if he never knew Lestrade, Mycroft didn't either, "strangers. You stay here." Greg's face falls, but only slightly, in an accepting way, a way that tells Sherlock he's used to be left behind, and he doesn't like that at all. "I'll get you, don't worry. I'll come back and get you, in a few hours at the most. You just stay here and try not to drink yourself into a stupor. I will come back. I promise."

"Why would I believe you?" Greg asks bitterly.

"Because you need me."

The alcoholic DI shoots him a glance. "So I do. God help me." Then he laughs. "I've known you for about... two hours, in this universe at least, but I do need you. I don't know why, I just do. But, okay. I will wait for you. But you'll have to do something for me first."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

"You'll take a shower and you'll wash your hair and you'll put on some of my clothes and gloves and a coat and a scarf– they won't find you perfectly, of course, but at least you'll be warm."

Sherlock actually has to blink away tears at that, because the raw caring he hears in Greg's voice might just be too much for him.

"Okay."

So he does what the DI told him to do – he'll make sure never to mention it again, once everything's gone back to normal – and he does fell better after the shower and his hair is clean and he's actually kind of dresses, though he's still high.

He accepts the coat, the gloves and the scarf the DI gives him as soon as he emerges from the bathroom and leaves without a word. Well, almost.

He turns around once, before he closes the door behind him, and says softly "Thanks".

Greg looks at him. "No, mate, thank you."

And, once Sherlock has closed the door and is on the way to find his brother, he adds, slowly, quietly, "for reminding me I'm still alive."

And just that is enough, he knows, even as he takes another bottle out of the fridge, to make sure he waits for Sherlock, or, if anything happens to keep him from returning, to come looking for him.

Author's note: I didn't expect to spend that much time with Lestrade, but, to be honest – I have a lot of fun (and I know that's not really an... appropriate word under these circumstances) with his character. The idea is that he's so world-weary, he's simply allowed life to pass him by in recent years and has grown immensely cynical. And then Sherlock shows up. I hope you get it by reading their conversation.

Btw, I changed a few things in the last chapter – there was a rather embarrassing typo, and a minor mistake in my own timeline.

I hope you liked the chapter, and please review.