Author's note: I never thought this story would get so much attention… I can't believe it, really. Proves once again that I'm not the only crazy person in the world, which is a relief. But, honestly, it's wonderful to be read. I'm having a lot of fun writing this story, and it's great that other people seem to have fun reading it as well. Thank you.

I don't own anything, and please review.

When he steps out of the apartment block, he realizes he still has no way to communicate... aside from talking, that is. He has to get a phone as quickly as he can. It won't be difficult to find out Greg's number, if it is as well protected as his address, and Sherlock doesn't doubt the fact. Well, Mycroft will certainly have a clean phone; he always keeps spares, with him being the British Government.

At least he's found an ally. Or as close to an ally as you can, under these circumstances. While it was... good, having someone believe him, having someone care enough to help him, he is sure Greg will get drunk or stay drunk whenever he can and won't be much help. He will come back, that he knows; he just doesn't know when, so technically, it wasn't a lie. And he's rather certain that the hours blend together for his DI anyway, so he shouldn't fell as bad about it as he does.

Suddenly his head hurts, tremendously, and it shouldn't because he doesn't have a head injury and he's still high, so there shouldn't be any withdrawal symptoms for at least another hour...

He's lying in the room with the white ceiling again, and this time, there is no sign of the blond short man, but there is someone who looks vaguely familiar, concern written all over his face, and he hears his name spoken, and...

Sherlock's kneeling on the pavement, breathing heavily, even more confused than before, if that's possible, but relieved when the headache slowly subsides. He doesn't know what these hallucinations mean, or why he just saw Lestrade – his version – in the room. And he hasn't yet had enough time in the room to find out where it is, and what is going on.

He shakes his head. If he keeps thinking about questions he can't find any answers for – yet – he'll never get to Mycroft before the cocaine leaves his bloodstream, and if there is one thing he doesn't wants less than showing up at his brother's house asking for help at all, then it's showing up at his brother's house asking for help high, and therefore giving Mycroft a reason for refusing to help him.

He pretends the thought that, in this world, this reality, where everything's wrong, he might have already have given him plenty of reasons for a refusal. The thought is absurd. Mycroft has always helped him, Sherlock has always openly resented him, and sometimes, been secretly thankful for it. That's the way it is. The only time Mycroft didn't help him was a time when he thought his little brother was dead, so Sherlock can't hold that against him.

It's in times like these, when he only holds a burn phone without an internet connection in his hand, that Sherlock actually misses his annoying brother. Not that he would ever admit it, of course; he just would like to call him to get all the information he needs on the crime syndicate of the week within an hour. He certainly doesn't miss the way Mycroft made him take cases, or how he would just show up in their flat to "see how they were doing". Or how he'd offer him a cigarette to check if he'd had a hard day; when Sherlock took it, the answer was yes.
He also misses his violin, but that he's thinking of it right now is merely an association, because Mycroft gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday. Again, he isn't thankful, of course not. But the violin has always been useful to him, helped him keep his dark moods at bay. And, if that didn't work, he could always annoy Mycroft.
Now both of that is gone, and he won't admit he misses any of it. Well, maybe he will admit he misses his violin and his phone.
And, in his worst moments, when he's all alone and he can feel the darkness slowly seeping into his soul, he might just admit he misses his brother's usefulness.
And, if he cries a few tears while thinking that, he'll ignore them.

What he means to think is, naturally, how best to get to Mycroft. It's a rather long way from Greg's rundown apartment to his brother's posh neighbourhood, and he should really economize his money, because, while Mycroft might help him, he'll certainly not give him any money to buy drugs, but likely, there's a tube station nearby, and while he might be dressed in ill-fitting clothes and anyone who has any experience can tell he's high on cocaine, at least he doesn't smell anymore, so he can use it.

The ride is uneventful, he just ignores the looks people shoot him now and then because he does look a bit like a clown in Greg's clothes, and he's sitting next to a secretary who's clearly having an affair with the CEO of her firm and has done so in the last four job she's had, and the child sitting opposite him is clearly only on the tube alone because his parents divorced recently and there was a misunderstanding who should pick him up after school today. In a way, Sherlock feels a kinship with the sad little child; he's lost in a strange place too and has nobody to come pick him up, if you don't count a DI who's most likely three sheets in the wind by now.

But thoughts like this won't help. He has to get himself together. He tries to picture himself telling Mycroft all that's happened, formulates the story in the most easily understandable way he can find, not because his brother has ever had any trouble understanding him (quite the contrary, he's always been able to read his mind, and it's annoying), but because Sherlock is perfectly aware that the whole thing seems...

Unbelievable.

Impossible.

Drug-induced, perhaps?

The doubts come back to haunt him.

No. It can't be. He remembers John's favourite tea. He remembers Lestrade's favourite tie. He remembers the awful tea set Mrs. Hudson got as a wedding present from her mother-in-law that got smashed when he returned. That's too much to make up, even in a drug-induced hallucination.

Besides, Greg recognised him. True, at first it had seemed he only knew him as a "crackhead" who'd stumbled upon a crime scene once and then vanished, never to be seen again, but then... this moment where some other recognition seemed to flutter just behind his eyes, and he could actually watch the DI trying, but ultimately failing, to grasp it.

The world he remembers so well, the world he was... ordinary people would say happy in has to be real.

Because he doesn't think he could live with if it wasn't.

He really doesn't like the state he's in, he decides; not even when hunting Moriarty's many, many henchmen has he felt so vulnerable, so unable to keep his emotions at bay. Of course, the reason why it's so difficult for him now is quite clear to him.

In those three years... He knew his friends (how he abhorred the word, once upon a time, but he's long since accepted that certain people managed to sneak behind his armour and that he'll have to live with it) were safe, in London, he knew what he had to do to get back to them. But here...

Thankfully, he has to get out of the tube. The difference to Lestrade's old/new/strange? neighbourhood is striking; the street is long and broad, the pavement well kept, the houses, or rather mansion, elegant and looked after. After all the things he's seen today, it reassures him to know that some parts of London still look like he remembers them.

Although he is rather certain that Mycroft would live here, in his beloved mansion, in every universe, time, or dimension, he can't hold back the sigh of relief when he sees the well-known black limousine in front of the house. This will be easier than he...

His relief is short-lived, because mid-thought, he realizes something that makes his eyes narrow.

Why is the limousine standing in front of the house?

Mycroft owes several, naturally, but he only uses one per day – if he doesn't have Sherlock's friends and acquaintances kidnapped with another one, that is. And he's always been trying to keep as low a profile as the big mansion will allow, so there'll only ever stand a limousine in front of the house when he's at home. So people may come to the conclusion that he just has one, and therefore a well-paid job, rather than thinking "he owes way too many to live a remotely normal life, so what does he do all day?" and starting to investigate.

And Mycroft really really shouldn't be at home right now. It's still only early afternoon, two o' clock at the most, he thinks he left Greg's flat at bout one thirty, so why is his brother here?

Even if he doesn't have to work all day long, which happens occasionally, though not often, Mycroft won't return home. He prefers spending his free time in the Diogenes club. Which is where Sherlock would actually have gone, if he hadn't been so anxious to speak to his brother alone.

Well, at least that will happen now, because no one, not even Anthea, has ever been allowed into Mycroft's house, actually, Sherlock is rather sure that apart from him, there haven't been any visitors in years, and even his visits were few and far between.

Mycroft doesn't even have a cleaning lady, doing the hovering and everything himself, preferring to keep his secrets as safely guarded as he can by refusing any staff to enter his mansion.

But, still, he has to admit that seeing his brother at home at this time of the day is perhaps even more unsettling than Mrs. Hudson not recognizing him or Lestrade being an alcoholic. Though only slightly.

He actually thought he'd have to break in, like he did with Greg's place. He thought he would have to try and get rid of all the security cameras and disarm the security system. But there doesn't seem to be any, and that scares him. Why wouldn't Mycroft want to be protected anymore? If paranoia ever was justified, it was in the case of the British Government. Why isn't there a security system?

But there's only one person who can answer all these questions, and this person is currently in the mansion, so Sherlock does the unthinkable and simply walks up to the front door and knocks.

As if that alone wasn't confusing enough, it doesn't even take a minute for Mycroft to open the door.

And then, and only then, Sherlock gets his biggest shock of the day.

He wasn't shocked when he woke up, when he saw Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

But seeing Mycroft in a T-shirt and jeans is simply too much.

His brother rolls his eyes. "I assume you are here for my next wallet? Should I spare us both the trouble and simply give it to you, so you can be on your way? And there's no need to stare. I know we haven't really seen each other for quite a long time – and, no, you stealing my wallet without me noticing you are in the proximity doesn't count – but, as far as I know, we prefer it that way."

Sherlock closes his mouth. In a way, this is worse than Mrs. Hudson's or Lestrade's reaction.

Because Mrs. Hudson might not have remembered him, but at least she cared.

And Greg might not care about anything, but he was interested.

This – the tone of voice, the look in his brother's eyes – it all speaks of simple, plain indifference.

And Sherlock would never have imagined that this would hurt him so much.

Mycroft grows impatient. "So, what is it? It's rather cold, even in your – state you must have realized it, judging by the rather ill-fitting coat you're wearing".

Sherlock opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Mycroft just adds, "Forget it, brother dear. I don't see the benefit of even trying to listen to anything you might have to say. A good day to you." And then he does something else Sherlock would have sworn less than a minute ago he'd never see his older brother do, and actually slams the door in his face.

He's still standing in front of it, a minute later, and is only roused from his stupor when he hears a car horn at the corner of the street.

What now?

He could leave, but he needs Mycroft's help, and he just can't believe his brother will really leave him standing there, in this weather. And –

But of course. If Mycroft was this indifferent towards him, he wouldn't have slammed the door in his face with such force, so quickly, as if trying to convince himself he really wants his brother to leave. There still has to be something there of the older sibling Sherlock remembers.

So he knocks again.

The door opens again immediately, proving Mycroft stood in front of it the whole time, maybe thinking about whether he should call after him or not.

This time, Sherlock is prepared. He puts his foot in the door, ignores Mycroft's glare and holds up the photo he found in his brother's wallet. "I thought you'd want that back".

Mycroft's eyes wander from the picture to Sherlock's face, and he knows he's seeing similarities between the little boy in the photo and the man standing in front of him, even in his pitiable state.

"I thought you had got rid of it. I was rather – " Mycroft stops and Sherlock nods. No explanation necessary.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock says, slowly, making sure he shows what he feels and needs in his voice and his face and his eyes, which doesn't come easy to the both of them, "Please, let me in. I need your – I need to speak with you, and I'm afraid it will take a while."

Mycroft doesn't say anything, and his expression doesn't change, but he takes the picture and his eyes soften as he compares the Sherlock then and the Sherlock now once again.

He steps aside wordlessly and Sherlock, with a sigh of relief, enters his brother's house.

Author's note: I hope you liked it, and please review.