Author's note: Hello, my dear readers, another update, sooner than usual. This is a... kind of transition chapter, because I feel I should explain the end of the last one a little bit better. And there can never be enough conversations of drunk Lestrade and high Sherlock (you can't imagine how much fun it is to write about that).

And: more followers, and more reviews! I'm happy. I'd never had thought this could happen when I started writing fanfiction a little over a month ago...

I don't own anything, and please review.

„You alright, mate? You like kind of spaced out…" Greg eyes Sherlock while he takes another sip of his beer bottle.

"The Brackenwell case" Sherlock answers, still staring at the wall.

"Yeah, like I just said, MP killed, wife says it was a gang of robbers. What about it?"

"I know this case, I mean, I know about this case. You called me in on it, the day before I... woke up in this life."

"In your old life as a "consulting detective", you mean? When this John was your BFF and I was your baby-sitter?" Sherlock huffs indignantly.

"You weren't my baby-sitter, you were my friend."

"Fine, whatever, this other life anyway, where neither you nor I were addicted to substances that will eventually kill us".

"Correct".

"I may not be sober – let's face the truth, I'm practically never sober nowadays – but this takes a lot of suspension of disbelief, 'Lock."

"Could you please stop using that nickname? I assumed you were simply too drunk to remember my first name when you used it when I called you for the first time."

Greg looks at him innocently. "Well, yes, I was... But I still kind of like it. Your real first name is kind of hard to pronounce when you're under the influence of alcohol, don't get me wrong, but I think it suits you. And be honest: How many nicknames were you called because the person who used it liked you?"

Sherlock can't find an answer to this immediately. He has been called a number of things in the course of his life – freak, weirdo, psychopath, sociopath (if someone wanted to be clever), idiot, unbearable, unlikeable, unlovable, and various other things. But he's never had a nickname bestowed on him by a friend.

"None". Greg looks at him expectantly, and Sherlock sighs.

"Alright, then. Just... don't use it too often. Please."

"Sure thing, 'Locky." Greg sniggers at his expression. "Sorry, just wanted to see how you reacted. Won't use that one again, I promise."

"Good."

Greg looks first at his bottle, then at Sherlock, and decides to put it on the floor. That's a first. Sherlock hasn't seen his eyes this alive, either, since he picked his lock this morning.

"So, you are saying, that... What you told me about... it was real? Because you know the case?"

"Because I know something I wouldn't be able to, if this was real. See, if this was my real life, then I would have no way of knowing the particulars of Brackenwell's murder, seeing as there was a news blackout."

"Which particulars?"

Sherlock tells him. Greg exhales slowly. "Right, that's even more than I know about it – well, I was drunk at the crime scene, so I guess that explains it. So, you were saying, because you know everything about this case, even though you shouldn't..."

"Greg, I know you can understand this if you try to" Sherlock says, patiently. Knocking on doors, being polite, being patient, talking with Mycroft in an actually brotherly way... he must tell John about this, when he gets home. His doctor won't believe it, but the expression on his face will certainly be worth it.

"I wake up here, a cocaine addict" Sherlock resumes, "and it looks like all the memories I have of my life as a consulting detective where merely hallucinations. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes".

"Good. Now, you tell me about this case, and I know all the particulars... Even though, so far, there has been no news coverage of it. So, I couldn't have heard about it. And, because I couldn't have heard about it..."

"The information can't have made its way into your hallucination" Greg interrupts, finally understanding, "at least not this accurate. You can't hallucinate correctly about something you don't know of. So, therefore..."

"This world must be the hallucination, the different dimension, whatever you want to call it" Sherlock concludes. "So..."

""So" is a good word, my friend" Greg says, still cynical, but eyes wonderfully ablaze and alive, "because... Alright, let's say your happy little dream of you and me and this John and your landlady and the crime solving rate at the Yard is the reality, and this is the hallucination – or, whatever it is, it's not real. So far, so good. But... What do you want to do now? How do you propose to get back to this... wonderful brave new world? Are you going to..."

And suddenly, Greg looks pained and worried and Sherlock needs a moment to realize what the DI means.

"You wish to know if I am going to kill myself?" Greg winces. "I'm right, then. Well, it would probably be one way to return to reality, but on the other hand..." he trails of, staring into the distance.

"Yes?" Greg prompts.

"There are too many variables. I could wake up in the real world – or fall deeper into the coma or whatever situation that made me invent this world. I could die, too, because my brain could interpret the suicide as... well, just that. It's too unsafe".

"When you say that, it must be really unsafe" Greg answers, "But I must admit that I am kind of relived... So, what do you plan to do?"

Sherlock hesitates. Not because Greg might be uncomfortable with the answer – he suspects that, at this point, the Di would do anything he wants him to – but because he isn't really sure. Finding John was a dead end; the only thing he really knows in this world is what he knows because he knew about it in the real world first –

The case.

And, just like that, everything is clear. Or as clear as it can be, under these circumstances, anyway.

"The Brackenstall case".

"What about it?"

"We need to solve it. Call me in, like you sued to do in my old life."

Greg laughs. "And how should I explain this? "Hey, guys, I know, I addicted to alcohol, so I brought someone who's addicted to cocaine along to even things out." Along those lines?"

"Yes – it's not like you care about the job, or your colleagues, really. But you do care about me – and I'm starting to suspect that you're the first thing you have cared about properly in years." Sherlock says it matter-of-factly, and Greg shrugs his shoulders. "I suppose you are right. So..."

"so you show me the crime scene and the evidence, and – I think it would be best if neither Anderson nor Donavan found out what is going on".

"I agree with you there, 'Lock. I guess you'll want to see the crime scene first?"

"Yes, but preferably in daylight. I don't want to miss any evidence your lot might have missed because we have to use a flashlight". "How did you know that the robbers turned off the power by jamming a knife into the fuse box?" Sherlock just looks at him. "Right, I told you. Or the "real version" of me, anyway." Greg sighs, but it's rather of exasperation than of hopelessness or disbelief.

"So you stay here for the night, and tomorrow, we'll go to the crime scene."

"If it's still preserved, that is."

"Lady Brackenstall wanted her house back almost immediately, but I refused... it was one of my more sober moments."

"And one of your more clever ones, too. So... Lady Brackenstall wanted to return to the crime scene almost immediately. Interesting."

Sherlock adopts his "thinking pose", as John dubbed it. Greg eyes him, his expression still one of hopefulness and excitement. "Good, then... Nothing against an investigation without Anderson or Donavan. A bit annoying, those two."

"You have no idea" Sherlock smirks.

"Your back, now please!"

So, the husband was found murdered, the wife next to him...

"Oh God know, Maurice!" The wife of the recently deceased gang boss storms out of the house, and Sherlock frowns. He hates killing people close to home, but he didn't have a choice; he can hear her sobs all the way down the street...

"What happened to you, anyway?" Greg asks, out of the blue.

"What do you mean?"

"You get lost in your head sometimes, and your eyes get that haunted look when you do. What is going on?"

"You mean, aside from..."

"Yeah, wrong world here, cocaine addict there, you are remembering something you don't want to remember. What is going on?"

"I..." Sherlock hesitates once again. How could he explain it? "You remember the cabbie who forced people to commit suicide, sort of, Jeff Hope?"

"Yes, you told me about him shortly after lunch. What has this got to do with anything?"

"It... He was persuaded by someone to kill all these people. Someone who controlled – and, in this world, I guess, still controls – almost every crime committed in London. His name was Moriarty. James Moriarty."

Greg shakes his head. "Never heard of him".

"You wouldn't have. He's quite intelligent. Anyway... in my reality, he made people believe I was a fraud and committed suicide in front of me, but not before telling me I had to jump off a building in order to save the life of my friends..." Sherlock, who's never really noticed something like this before when he was in the middle of a monologue, sees the unspoken question in the DIs eyes. "Including you". Greg looks absurdly happy considering the story he's listening to, and Sherlock is absurdly happy that he told him the truth. He never told his DI the truth, now that he thinks about it. He should once he returns to his real life.

"And, then, in order to return from the "dead", I had to destroy Moriarty's web – he had associates all over the world, you see, and it took me three years to find and dispose of them all."

"And by "dispose" you mean – "

"Whatever was necessary... Arrests, Threats, or..."

Sherlock's palms feel wet, when has he started sweating? He's still high, and he's feeling otherwise well, so why...

Greg waves a hand. "I understand. You don't have to finish the sentence."

"It wasn't... what I wanted. Do you believe me?"

"I have believed far more unbelievable things today, 'Lock. Plus, I don't think you would ever want to kill anyone."

Sherlock laughs, a short, bitter laugh. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Greg, so I..."

"Bullshit".

It's not a question, it's not even a simple word; it's just a statement, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Come on, my friend, you can't honestly expect me to believe that you're a sociopath – and I'm the one who believes, or wants to believe, the whole "this reality isn't real" thing. For example, you wake up in a strange world, a cocaine addict, confused, suffering from withdrawal symptoms, cold – and what is the first thing you do? You jump up and go looking for your friends. And when this... Moriarty forced you to jump and told you otherwise your friends would die, you jumped. And you spend three years hiding and... hunting his web so that you could return to them. And you obviously didn't tell anyone you were alive so nobody would be put in danger.
Because that's what sociopaths do: Continually putting the welfare of others before their own. So, don't try to tell me any of this bullshit, again. You are not a sociopath, and you regret what you had to do, but you're happy your friends stayed safe while you did it."

The room, the vaguely familiar silver-haired guy talking to the blond man. "I know, he was irresponsible as always, but... we got –"

He tears himself away from the ... vision and thinks about what Greg just said.

Sherlock starts to protest, but the DI simply raises a hand. "Forget it, 'Lock, you picked me up from the floor and made me something to eat, remember? That is, of course, another sign of sociopathy."

Sherlock closes his mouth, and Greg smirks triumphantly. "See? Bullshit, and you know it." Then he seems to think of something else. "Didn't you say something about an agreement between you and that brother of yours? Big Brother, who knows everything? Might want to let him know that you were right all along, so you want come and try to detox in his house."

"You are right". Sherlock pulls out his phone and decides that it'll be easier to text. At least Mycroft won't shout at him that way. Luckily, his brother has saved his mobile number in the phone, so no problem there.

He keeps it short and to the point.

Found my proof. I won't come tomorrow, but I'll stay in touch. Try to trust me
S.

It takes Mycroft less than a minute to reply.

Figured you would. Please do. I don't know if I can, but I'll try.
Mycroft.

It's good enough. For now, anyway. He nods at Greg, who's clearly still worried somebody might come to fetch him away. He smiles relieved, and Sherlock answers the smile with one of his own.

Greg picks up his bottle and toasts him. "So, it's the druggie and the drunkard against the world. Fine by me."

For the time being, Sherlock reflects as he settles in to wait until daylight, it might be fine by him, too.

Author's note: I don't think I've ever used this much dialogue in a chapter/story before. But it was important. So, I haven't forgotten about the case I introduced in the first chapter, which is actually a modernization of a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story... always wanted to try that. And why not here? It's a great way of bonding, after all, as A Study in Pink clearly proved...

The thing with the nickname just happened. I thought it kind of cute, and it fits with this Lestrade's character.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.