Author's note: I can't stop. God help me, I can't. I love to write this story. And by the way this is going, it . . .

Also, the scene right at the beginning of the chapter is not, strictly speaking, my own. A reviewer brought it up, and I thought "Hey, let's make everything more dramatic! That sounds great". As previously stated, my mind is a strange place. But, thanks a lot for the suggestion.

Warnings for angst. And alcoholic Lestrade makes an appearance again! I don't know why I love what I turned him into so much. Must be his cynical worldview. Anyway, on with the story...

I still don't own anything, and please review.

Sherlock stares blankly after John, who just rejected him like he didn't care, because he didn't. Because, in this version of their lives, Sherlock is a cocaine addict and John is an ex-army doctor who never found his way back into life.

Because they never met.

But Sherlock won't be beaten so easily. He runs after John again. He has to try, God knows he has to try.

"John!"

The ex-army doctor stops walking, sighs and turns around to give Sherlock another death-glare.

"Since you're obviously not going to leave – how about I listen what you have to say, and then we both go our separate ways? There's a wall in my living-room that won't stare at itself the whole night.

Sherlock winces. Has it really come to this? Is all John does buying tea, staring at walls and contemplating suicide?

The answer is only too obvious. Yes.

But, at least, he has a chance. And he knows what impressed John all those years ago. He can only hope it will work again.

So, he takes a deep breath. "You are an ex-army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan five years ago. You have a sister," he almost says Harry's name but manages to avoid it – if John realized he knew things like that, he would look upon him as a stalker, not as a "brilliant, fantastic" man who just looks at someone and knows, andat least now he can go back to deducing, and he sees quite clearly that John doesn't have his phone, or rather Harry's phone, with him, which proves his sister must have been annoying him with calls "who has almost certainly bought you the frankly quite hideous jumper you're wearing and is, by the looks of it, recently separated from her partner." He wouldn't have believed Harry and Clara could actually make it work, either; he really can't blame John for the blog entry.

John is listening now, at least, with a look of surprise on his face. It's better than the downright hostility from just a few moments before.

"You –" And this is where it gets painful, because Sherlock managed, when he sae John for the first time, to keep his deductions to the minimum. But now...

"You aren't happy. Far from it. You haven't worked in..." Wait, the trousers he's wearing can't be older than three years. So he tried to look presentable at some point. "At least two years, though you did try to get back into your job, because you loved it. Helping people, the excitement. You miss it."

The food and the tea he has in his bag...

"You have to live with very little money, because your army pension barely allows you to stay in London. But still, the food and the tea you bought –" Here John actually glances at the contents of his bad "Are incredibly cheap and don't taste good. Even you could afford something better, but you choose not to." Here, his breath catches in his throat for a second, because, when John shifts his weight, he can see his right wrist for a moment.

There's a faint scratch there that can only come from a knife

Not a scar, so no actual suicide attempt, but he did hold a knife to his wrist and pushed. A little bit.

He's already contemplating which method to use. He's almost trying them out. No, don't think about that now.

"You don't think to deserve something better. You feel utterly useless, because you're limping and your hand keeps shaking, although these are both psychosomatic. And you aren't. Useless, I mean. But even so – you stand up, you stare at the wall, you go shopping, you eat because your body needs nourishment, you stare at the wall again, then you lie down and stare at the ceiling, because sleep doesn't come easily to you, and when it does, you wake up from nightmares. So you sit up and stare at the wall again until it's time to get up. And the cycle repeats itself."

He'd rather not bring up John's contemplation of suicide, so he doesn't. But he stands still and looks at his friend, and waits.

Which John would have appreciated greatly in their better lives, undoubtedly.

John looks back, for a moment, there's still the surprise on his face, and disbelief...

Then, his eyes turn hard and his face becomes impassive again and he says two words Sherlock thought he'd never hear from his lips.

"Piss. Off". And, just like that, John turns and keeps walking, and this time, Sherlock lets him go. He doesn't even watch him leave. He looks at the pavement instead.

His only reaction is muttering "That's what people usually say" under his breath.

Then he turns and leaves the street.

It is over. Everything's over: John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, the life he dreamed up for himself...

He should just go back to Mycroft's now, really.

But something of the old spirit of rebellion, that has always made his life – or the life he desperately wants to have had, really – more adventurous than those of other human beings, is still in him and rears its head.

Twenty-four hours, that's what they agreed on. Twenty-four hours to find John, to find out that this life is the unreal one. Well, that didn't work out quite so well, but still. He still has over twenty hours left.

He might as well spend them with someone he might be able to help, if only by keeping him company.

Luckily, Greg is far more sober when he picks up this time. "Hello, Sherlock?"

"You managed to save my number, in your state? I'm surprised."

"You're taking cocaine simply to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay, and you are telling me what I can or can't do? Aren't we quite the little hypocrite?"

Somehow, this version of his DI is the only thing in this deranged reality that brings a smile to Sherlock's lips, if only for a very short time. He had to tell Greg the truth. "I found John."

"And? Is everything well again? Are the birds singing from the trees, and your epic bromance is back on track? What happened?"

"He told me to piss off." He can tell, he can feel that the DI is struggling against the urge to say something cynical, and wins, but only just. There must have been something in Sherlock's voice that told him that he shouldn't make any fun of this.

"For what it's worth – and I suspect it isn't worth much – I'm sorry". And he really is, though he most certainly has problems expressing it.

"I know, Greg. Thanks."

"So... what happens now? You off to find a voodoo-doctor or something?"

"I"... this is the difficult part. He has to tell Greg about his agreement with Mycroft, but he doesn't want to give the DI the feeling he's abandoning him. "I came to an agreement with my brother. Twenty-four hours to prove to... myself really, that this life is real, then, if I didn't manage to do that, I come back to his house and detox."

Silence on the other hand, then a humourless chuckle. "Well, it was a nice dream, at least. Can't say I have had such a nice one for a couple of years."

"Greg, I..." Sherlock isn't sure what to say, he's never been good at holding meaningful conversations. About feelings and relationship and similar things, that is. But the DI interrupts him. "And where are you spending the night?"

"I was hoping..."

"Thought you'd have a reason to call. But, sure, come and stay. Nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor while someone else shoots up next to you. Plus, you are the only person you've had a conversation with longer than "How are you?" "Fine." for over five years. So, before you disappear again, might as well spend some time together."

He says "Thank you" and hangs up. He's still got Greg, at least.

He's trying to make the imbecile of a police man understand that he needs his help bringing down an international weapon's dealer's syndicate, and, though he'll never tell him, he really really misses Lestrade. The DI would already have sent at least one car...

Half an hour later, he is at Greg's, after having picked the lock, because no one opened him when he knocked (he's knocking on doors, thanking people, trying to be polite. His John would be proud. But his John doesn't exist).

The DI comes back ten minutes after, carrying shopping bags in his hand. "The shop was still open. Thought we could have a proper meal, at least. Can't remember when I had that the last time..."

"Two weeks ago" Sherlock says, matter-of-factly.

Greg laughs. "you know what, you get yourself clean, I'll stop drinking and we become the best PIs this city has ever seen."

"Are you sure the Yard can function without you, Inspector?"

"They can try, and hey, if they can't, more cases for us, right?"

Greg disappears into the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him mumbling to himself as he prepares something. He can feel the high declining – he took less cocaine in the restroom, because he wanted to talk to John as sober as possible without suffering any withdrawal symptoms. He takes out the needle. "Greg, do you mind – "

"No, no, just go ahead. I need a beer myself. Just shut up and shoot up" Greg calls out, and Sherlock, because the whole situation is so surreal, can't help asking "Do you want me to go to the toilet, or – "

"Hey, be my guest. Wherever you like to inject. I don't mind, as long as I don't get any of this stuff in my body. I'm strictly anti-drugs."

"Except for booze".

"Depends on your definition of the word "drug", sunshine."

So Sherlock smiles and shrugs and shoots up in Greg's living room, while the DI takes out another bottle from the fridge.

How wonderfully domestic, all in all.

He takes more this time, the high will most likely last for several hours. But he's careful not to take too much – he'd rather not die, even in this world, thank you very much.

He pushes the needle into his flesh and presses the plunger –

"Well, haven't you spoken to Mr. Holmes's brother? I have every right to be here and to make sure everything's fine. And I tell you, you are giving him too much. So please – I won't ask again this nicely. Less – "
But he's stopped listening, because he recognizes the voice of the blond man, and is wondering what he's doing here, wherever here is, that is –

"Hey, no passing out high as a kite as long as I'm still conscious enough to realize" Lestrade pokes at him with his bottle – really, he shouldn't make a habit out of that.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

They eat mostly in silence, though now and then they talk of trivial matters, mostly Greg's life before Sherlock turned up, because he's curious about that ("Nothing to tell, really, mate. Get drunk, get sober, buy more bottles to get drunk again. Rather simple, my friend").

Once, and only once, they talk about the future, when Greg suddenly shoots him a strange glance. "Once you're... clean... will you call? Or come by?"

"I will. I promise."

"Well, you kept your last one, so..."

"Maybe" Sherlock says, though he doesn't really know why, because he doesn't think Mycroft would appreciate this particular acquaintance "You can visit me, once the worst is over. I'll be in touch."

The DI nods, and then they talk of something else.

It's after dinner, when Greg is at his third bottle, that everything, once again, changes.

"You know what, I don't think I have been so sober at this hour for the last few years. I might even go to the Yard tomorrow. See if Anderson and Donavan are getting on well with the Brackenstall case."

Sherlock's heart, he chooses to allow himself such a silly unscientific expression for the time being, misses a beat.

"Did you just say... Brackenstall?"

"Yes, the MP who was found murdered yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock's heart decides to make up for the missed beat by beating frantically all of a sudden.

"Greg... the case only made the news today, or was there anything in the papers yesterday?"

"We managed to keep the press at bay. Some sort of news blackout... The Chief Superintendent knows the editor of some big paper or another, didn't really pay attention when they told me, needed a drink. Why?"

Sherlock smiles and laughs in delight, he feels like dancing. Because if there was no news of this murder yesterday, than he can't have heard about it. Because he doesn't work with the police in this reality.

Which means...

Which means he can't have made up Lestrade's call with the particulars of the case.

His life with John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, annoying Mycroft, solving...

It was real.

Author's note: So, something a little more positive, for a change. And, I can't help but find the scene of Sherlock shooting up in Lestrade's living room while the DI is drinking in the kitchen... strangely epically tragic. But that's just me.

I hope you liked it, and please review.