Author's note: The respsone to this fic is overwhelming… Seriously, being followed and favourited is awesome! I still don't know how much longer this is going to be (my mind refuses to answer my questions), but whichever course it will take, I already have several other ideas for new oneshots… I can't seem to stop. You may decide whether that's a good or a bad thing.

I don't own anything, and please review.

Sherlock stares at the documents Mycroft just gave him, his thoughts tumbling over one another, the high slowly leaving him; very soon, the coke bugs will make their appearance again, and then – should his brother decide to keep him here until he's detoxed, he might not be able to find John in time –

Was there ever a John Watson?

The thought comes unbidden, and refuses to go away, no matter how much Sherlock tries to push it out of his mind.

But then he shakes himself out of his stupor; proving that John exists should be the easiest thing in the world. He does, after all, write a blog, and while Mycroft may not be able to access military files anymore, he still must possess some form of internet connection.

Mycroft seems to have anticipated his next question (sometimes, his ability to read Sherlock's minds, as annoying as it may be, is actually quite useful) and when he looks up, his brother is busy on a laptop. He must have left the room during Sherlock's contemplation of the documents then, without him noticing.

"I said, could you pass me a pen?"

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Didn't realize I had gone out, then."

The memory feels like another stab in his gut, and he exhales slowly. Mycroft shoots him another worried glance. "Are you alright? I can clearly see..."

"I'm okay. For a bit, at least."

"Good, then."

And, for a moment, a stupid, rather childish moment, Sherlock wishes he would have yelled at him instead. Or admonished him. Like he used to do in the life Sherlock remembers. Because the way Mycroft treats his... addiction right now just gives him the feeling that his brother accepted long ago that this was all he could ever be. An addict.

A failure.

So, just to break the silence, he asks, rather helplessly, "Whatever happened to my violin?"

Mycroft answers without hesitation. "I was informed you'd pawned it for money for more drugs years ago."

But, before he can allow this thought to sink in properly, Mycroft turns the laptop around.

"John Watson, wasn't it? A blog? I presume you mean this one."

Sherlock recognizes the familiar webpage instantly. How could he not? He has read, commented on, belittled it so often, he can quote most of John's entries word for word.

Or at least he could, if they were there.

But they aren't. There are several entries, dating over the last few years – but there's nothing about Sherlock, their flat, their cases.

Instead –

15th December
Pointless.
Nothing happens to me.

29th January. The day they met. Or should have met. Were supposed to have met.
Meeting an old friend
Met Mike Stamford today, of all people. Had coffee together. Might go out for drinks sometime. Same old Mike, nicest guy ever, not a care in the world. Hasn't changed since uni one bit. Only wish I could say the same about me. At least he didn't mention the cane once I'd established that I got shot.

So he met Mike Stamford, then. But not Sherlock. Which only leaves one conclusion:

He didn't meet Sherlock, because Sherlock wasn't in St Bart's and had never even spoken to Mike Stamford. Because Sherlock had most likely been lying in a ditch, high as a kite.

Once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

He can almost hear John answer "What does that mean?"

He must have spoken his old favourite saying out loud, because Mycroft reacts surprised. "So you actually remember some of what Mummy told us, then, I didn't expect that."

But Sherlock doesn't answer, because he's reading through John's other blog posts.

There aren't many.

Went to a pub with Mike.

Serial suicides have stopped, apparently with no cause whatsoever. Don't think the police have anything to do with it.

Still nothing happens to me.

Had to move again, even smaller flat this time, but I can't seem to be able to leave London. It's like something's holding me here, although nothing is.

Ella's trying to push me back into work, but I don't see that in my future anytime soon. Who wants to be treated by a doctor whose left hand is shaking like a leaf in a storm? And who can't even walk properly?

Harry and Clara are together again. Well, maybe this time it'll work out. Wouldn't hold my breath though.

Sherlock frowns. His John would never have posted anything like this about his sister.

Then, again, his John would have been living with him at this point.

A woman smiled at me today. Probably pitied me. It's not like anyone would want someone so utterly useless.

And so it goes on, each post speaking more clearly of depression, loneliness and hopelessness than the last. The final entry is almost a year old.

What is the point of all of this, anyway?

And that's it, and Sherlock's gripped by a fear that he can't deny or delete, a fear that tells him John might not be in London anymore, because –

Because he used that gun he used to keep in his desk and stare at every morning before he met Sherlock, and not to shoot holes in the wall or catch criminals.

Because he committed –

And then, Sherlock is actually lying on the floor, and Mycroft is sounding genuinely panicked. "Sherlock? Sherlock? You just fell out of the chair without a word. Sherlock?"

The room again, the ceiling, the blond man and the vaguely familiar looking man. The later is talking to the former. "You know how stubborn he is, John, don't worry." But his voice is laced with worry, too. Some people are idiots.

He shakes of the picture of John and Lestrade in the room, as well as his brother's hands. "What about my homepage?" And he ignores the look in Mycroft's eyes and the shake of his head, and tries to access his homepage, The Science Of Deduction, and finds nothing.

His homepage doesn't exist.

His career doesn't exist.

His life doesn't exist.

"Don't worry, you'll never have existed, nobody will ever find your body" The Spanish voice is sounding cold and threatening, and the knife comes closer...

"It's impossible!" Sherlock exclaims, maybe louder than he meant to.

Mycroft just looks at him.

"Mycroft, I can remember everything! My life... It's not this. I quite cocaine, I went cold turkey, here in this house, I was thirty. Mrs. Hudson's case had opened my eyes, and I wanted to solve more cases, but didn't know how, and then I stumbled upon Lestrade at a crime scene, and he arrested me at first, but then he told me I could help if I quit, and you were trying to force me into detox all the time, anyway, so I – "

"Sherlock, what did you just say about impossible, improbable and truth?" Mycroft shoots back, almost as loud as Sherlock. They've both jumped up, and are now facing each other, the table between them. "You know what cocaine does to the body and the brain, the symptoms can be quite similar to those of a mental illness. Or maybe the use triggered a mental illness. What you are saying, what you are trying to tell me, it's impossible.
Don't you think I would like to believe your story, too? Don't you think I would prefer – " he stops.

Of course. Naturally, Mycroft would prefer to still be the British Government, the Secret Service and the CIA on a free-lance basis. Never mind that...

But the Mycroft continues, much more quietly.

"Don't you think I would prefer to be able to visit you and your best friend in your flat? Don't you think I would prefer to be able to ask you for help on cases? You know how much I hate legwork. Don't you think I would prefer to – to talk to you sometimes, when you're not high? To ask you how you're doing? To... to be your brother, now and then?"

And then Mycroft turns around, and Sherlock looks somewhere else, because he, too, has seen the tears in his brother's eyes, and is himself quite thankful for a chance to rub his eyes without being observed.

Mycroft walks round the table and does another thing he's never done before, or at least, not since they were both over the age of seven.

He squeezes Sherlock's hand and speaks again, slowly, insistently.

"Sherlock... Despite all this, and the bad blood and the history between us... I can't help but notice there's something different about you, today. You seem... You seem to actually care about your life, and... other people, and... Do what you just said. Stay here and detox. I can get doctors and everything you need. You can do it, I'm sure of it. I –" He hesitates, then decides to say what he wants to say. "I got your violin back, you know, as soon as I heard what you'd done with it. It's upstairs. It's yours again, if you want."

The raw caring and need Sherlock's hears in his voice takes his breath away, and he deliberately doesn't look in his brother's face. And then he thinks –

Why not take him up on the offer? He already knows what he will endure, although he's apparently never tried it before; maybe he can live with Mycroft afterwards. He is lost, he's unsure, he's an addict – all he has is his brother. Greg – Greg just grasped at straws, because he desperately needed his life to have some semblance of meaning.

He wants to say yes, opens his mouth to say yes, but then he is flooded by memories, jumbled together, in the wrong order, some pleasant, some unpleasant, but so real.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"Because you are an idiot".

"Will you come?"

"Sherlock, the mess you've made."

"Jim wasn't even my boyfriend."

"I have been reliably informed I don't have one."
"We both know that's not quite true".

"I'm starting to enjoy this".

"Old friend of mine, John Watson".

""Why don't you get a flatshare?"

"If I go where you point me".

"Don't make me order you".

"They will die if you don't"

"John, I had to – "
"How DARE you say that!"

"Of course you can spent the night here, Sherlock. It's – it's good to have you back."

"Clean slate, if you want, Mycroft".
"Yes, I would like that, Sherlock."

"Bring John back with you, Sherlock, promise?"
"I promise, Mrs. Hudson."
"It will be just like in the old days, then! I'll make us a cuppa."

And he can't give up yet, can't give up them yet. So, instead of yes, he says, "Mycroft... One more day. Give me one more day. I have to find John, if only to convince myself. Then, I will come. I promise."

Mycroft lets go of his hand and steps back. "Of course, how stupid of me to assume..."

"No, Mycroft, please. I will come and do what you just told me to, I just... I need this. This last try. This last hope. Give me a phone, and I'll stay in touch during the day."

Mycroft looks at him, but some of the scepticism has left his voice when he says, "Wait here, just for a moment. Then you can go."

He comes back with a smart phone. It even has an internet connection. God bless Mycroft's need to be prepared for anything, even when he no longer has anything to prepare himself for.

Sherlock puts the phone in one pocket of Greg's coat. "Thank you".

Mycroft nods. "So... you are off then? For twenty-four hours?"

"Yes. If John doesn't recognize me." Mycroft wisely chooses not to answer. Instead, he says. "Till then. Take care."

"I will" Sherlock answers, and then he turns around and leaves the house, determined to find out the truth once and for all.

No matter how horrible it might be.

Author's note: A bit shorter this time, but I wanted to put up a chapter earlier for once – as a thank you to all of you. And the chapter is important and dramatic enough as it is.

I hope the scene wasn't too much out of character – I always wanted to write something (and a big, dramatic something at that) where Mycroft makes his feelings clear, and I figured that it would be best put into an AU, because it certainly would never happen in the show. But, as stated before, I can't help but feel that Mycroft loves his brother dearly – it's the big sister in me. Btw, the "Mycroft can read Sherlock's thoughts" thing is actually based on me and my brother – sometimes he opens his mouth and I answer his question and then he says "I didn't say anything, you know, but you're right". And I'm rambling again.

I hoped you liked it, and please review.