Author's note: A bit later today than usually, I'm afraid. But, even though it certainly doesn't look like it, I still have a life outside fanfiction... most of the time.
But you get the appearance of two other characters, and... that's worth something, right?
I don't own anything, please review.
"Stop here for a moment, please!" Greg suddenly cries out. Sherlock, impatient to get to the lab he knows so well and he hopes hasn't changed as much as everything seems to have, glares at him. "Why? Is there a place where you get free beer?"
"No – but, while I freely admit I might not be the best policeman on the force, in the state I'm in, I still recognize this shadow on the corner as what he is – a drug dealer. Don't you think?"
Sherlock turns his head and, sure enough, there is a drug dealer standing on the indicated corner. It's easy to realize why he overlooked him; the familiar thrill of the chase, of a new case, is upon him, a thrill that seems to even keep the high at bay. It reminds him why he quit in the real world, in his world.
"Might as well buy yourself enough stuff to get through the day now, who knows when the chance may present itself again" Greg suggests.
"You may be right, however, I fear, I don't have quite enough – "
Greg thrusts his wallet in Sherlock's hands. "You just made me do my work properly, something no one has accomplished in the last... six years or so. Be my guest. And don't worry, I still have a card I can purchase booze with."
Sherlock decides not to comment on this and makes the shadow's day by purchasing everything he has, which might even last until tomorrow, if he economizes. As long as he can concentrate on the case without withdrawal symptoms...
Because the case, like so many other things, is the same but a little different; because he has to cling to it because it proves his world is real and this one is not; because, maybe, if he can solve it, he can get back home, back to normal.
They spend the rest of the cab ride in silence. Almost. It's broken just once.
"...Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
Greg looks at him, genuinely worried and... a bit scared? "Let's say we solve this case, but... it doesn't do anything, and you stay here, a druggie, and I'm still what I have been for years... What then?"
There is only one answer to this, and it's one Sherlock hates giving.
"I don't know".
Greg just nods, and neither of them says another word for the rest of their journey.
„Sherlock?" Greg asks, when they were finally standing in front of St Bart's, "Just out of curiosity, how should I introduce you? I don't think "This is my weird cousin" will work, and "This is a crackhead I decided to let help with the investigation" doesn't really have a nice ring to it."
"We always could..." Sherlock's eyes wander to the rooftop; he can't help himself.
"Nobody could be that clever".
"You could".
"Goodbye, John".
John at the cemetery, the grief, the anger...
All he did, the torture, the killings, just to get back to his friends, his flat, his home, his doctor... And then...
Last evening, John's face, the hostility...
"Piss off".
"Hey, what did I say about getting lost in your head while I am still sober enough to realize it?" Greg complains, while taking out the first flask and apparently finally emptying it.
"What?" he says when he sees Sherlock's questioning glance, "Might as well dose myself up, can't walk around in the morgue and the lab drinking. Even I still have some standards, you know – plus, the rather cute little girl who cuts up bodies for a living keeps giving me this disapproving glances whenever I show up rather not-so-sober– "
"As long as you can still stand..." Sherlock starts to answer, before he realizes something. "Wait – "cute little girl in the morgue?""
"Yeah, so what? I think she's pretty. And she's got brains. Not that she'd ever go out with me, the girl's got standards, and that's good, but still, she's nice to look at. Not that you'd get it, being asexual and all..."
But Sherlock doesn't hear most of the grumbling, really, because he knows which "girl" Greg's talking about – he still remembers how he looked at her at their Christmas party...
"Molly? Molly Hooper?"
"Yes, Molly Hooper. Why? Don't tell me she was Molly Lestrade in your little perfect world, otherwise you might really make me cry."
"Stop daydreaming, Greg. Obviously she wasn't your wife – I would've told you about her."
"If you say so, 'Lock. So, how do you know her then?"
"She was... She is the medical examiner in "my little perfect world", as you put it, too, and she had a ... crush on me."
"Well..." Greg looks him up and down. "I fear that may be... a little far fetched. I don't think you can charm her in showing you the body and/or the evidence."
"But you, my dear Detective Inspector, who is actually supposed to investigate this case, could distract her for a bit, just long enough for me to..."
"No problem, that, but just how long do you need me to..."
"Could be five minutes or five hours, it's difficult to say."
"I don't think I could manage five hours, but thanks for the compliment."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm glad to hear your sex drive is still intact, at least. And I thought you had drunk away every impulse known to man."
"Not the irrational ones. I'm here with you, remember?" But Greg smiles as he says it, and Sherlock's lips twitch too.
"Nevertheless, you are aware that Molly practically lives at the lab?"
"Yes, I know how much time she spends there. Which is why you are going to take her to an early lunch."
"If she wants to eat with me, that is."
"Turn your charm on Greg! Objectively speaking, you are rather attractive for a man your age."
At this, Greg opens the second flask for the first time and takes another long gulp. "First of all: Thank you for the "your age" bit. Certainly made me feel a lot better about myself."
Then, he starts walking towards the door, Sherlock following him. He doesn't say anything else, though, so that Sherlock finally gives in and asks "And secondly?"
"I'm rather glad that you told me you were asexual earlier".
"I choose not to comment, as long as you can keep Molly out of the lab."
Suddenly, Greg looks rather smug. "I will try my best".
As is turns out, he doesn't have to.
They arrive at the lab, just as Molly prepares to leave. Sherlock, once again, hides behind a corner, while the DI tries his best, like he promised. "Miss Hooper!" Greg says, smiling politely.
Molly answers his smile with one of her own, not just politely but actually happy, and Sherlock deduces her quickly, because he can feel himself getting dizzy again, and –
The room, the blonde man, a woman beside him. "You know him, John, it's Sherlock, everything will turn out fine in the end..." "Thank you, but I fear you may be too optimistic... The treatment he got at first..."
He shakes himself free. Deduce. Now. Still lives with a cat... No, two cats by now. No boyfriend, but going on a lunch date... although she probably would gladly accept Lestrade's invitation. No change there, then. Although, to be honest, there seems to be something... different about her. Sherlock's only ever seen her hopelessly infatuated with him, unsure of herself. This one... she is proud of what she has achieved, and not hampered by any silly hopeless crush. She is anything but unsure. Although, her apparent interest in an alcoholic DI certainly shows she isn't that far off from his world's "I'm going to help everyone I can see"-Molly.
Greg speaks. "I was just wondering, have you finished the autopsy of Sir Brackenstall yet?"
"As a matter of fact I have, Inspector. It's lying on my desk. But I'm really afraid I have a lunch date right now..."
Greg's face falls, only slightly but still noticeably, and Sherlock can't help but wonder at normal human beings and their relationship issues once again. At times like these, he's even more glad than usual to be asexual.
"No problem. I'll just...look at it, have a cup of coffee maybe, if that's all right with you?"
"Of course not. Make yourself at home". And with another smile, she shuffles out of the lab.
"Excellent, I couldn't have done it better" Sherlock says sarcastically, as he steps out of his hiding place.
"Don't need to remind me that I fail at asking girl out to lunch too, 'Lock."
"Trust me, you don't want to be her lunch date, anyway – the last guy she got together with in this way ("Jim wasn't even my boyfriend" resonates in his head, but he decides to ignore it for now) broke into the Tower of London, organized and almost-prison breakout and managed to get into the Bank of England..."
"You know what? Let's ignore this topic and concentrate on the task at hand – and where did I put the second flask again?"
"Left hand pocket, just above your heart".
"Excellent". He takes another sip. "What? There's nobody around, or is there?"
"Like you just said, Greg – task at hand. Does there happen to be any forensic evidence next to the autopsy report?"
Greg looks over the desk, pushing a framed picture of two rather hideous cats – he was right then – out of the way.
"Yes – how did you ever guess that?"
Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Anderson likes to have somebody else do his work."
"Well, the better for us, 'Locky."
"Don't try it too often, Greg. Now, please, give me the evidence – I will run it through the lab – and you can read the autopsy report meanwhile."
"All right. Just call if you need anything."
Sherlock nods, takes the plastic bags and makes his way to the thankfully empty lab.
He starts running the DNA that was on the swabs from the glasses – even Anderson couldn't have got that wrong – and looks at the rope that was used to tie Lady Brackenstall to the chair through a microscope.
He tries his best to push the memory of John limping into his life on that day five years ago away, he really does. But some things – as he has painfully learned ever since he returned from the dead – aren't repressed that easily.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Excuse me, are you all right?"
He looks up, quite surprised, because, while the person standing in front of him is one he calls one of his less intimate friends (when has it come to this, that he has enough friends to actually class them?), he somehow didn't expect to see him here.
Although he does teach at Bart's and meets John from time to time, according to the unenthusiastic blog.
Mike Stamford doesn't seem fazed by his silence. "You just looked like you... lost something of importance."
Sherlock swallows. It has always been one of Mike's greatest strength, his ability to state the obvious. It makes it almost impossible to lie to him. So he doesn't.
"I suppose I was looking for... someone. But it doesn't matter". Not anymore.
"Good, then... do you mind me asking what you're doing here?"
"I'm helping the police with an investigation", Sherlock answers, while simultaneously wondering how to make Mike let him stay and checking that at least this one of his friends is still the same. Still married to sue apparently, and little David was born just when he was supposed to be, although his second name certainly isn't Sherlock. He was touched when John told him about the little boy who was born during his time spent dead, he still is. But at least Mike's still the same, and that's something.
He's even as trustful as he always was, it appears, because he does take in Sherlock's appearance and notices he's high, of course, but he says, "You obviously know what you are doing, so I believe you. Always glad to have a new face around. Plus, nothing can faze me today. My wife is pregnant again."
He then sticks out his hand, and as Sherlock once again introduces himself to a man he has known for ten years, he decides that Mike Stamford, for all his ordinariness, might be one of the most extraordinary men he's ever met.
"I'll leave you to it, then" Mike says, gives him a little wave and is most likely off to grab his usual coffee from Starbucks. Sherlock concentrates on the evidence again.
He has no way of knowing that, just ten minutes later, Mike Stamford meets an exhausted and confused looking John Watson in the park.
"John! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?" he asks, concerned. John has been on a downward spiral ever since he came back from Afghanistan, and Mike is almost constantly worried about his old friend. And today, he looks even worse than usual.
John looks at him, then shakes his head. "It's nothing, I... Mike, I just have been up all night running through town, that's all."
"What?" Mike makes a decision, takes John with him to Starbucks, buys him a coffee and then, because he senses that John would rather be alone with him than surrounded by people, sits with him on a park bench, never mind the cold.
Only then, ignoring an odd sense of déjà vue, does he ask "Why were you running through town the whole night and this morning? What were you doing?"
John looks a little sheepish. "It's nothing, silly really, I – I suppose I was looking for... someone."
The sentence is so oddly familiar that Mike can't help but smile as he says "You are the second person to say that to me today".
To which John, looking interested in something Mike has to say for the first time in years, answers, "Who was the first?"
Author's note: Things are starting to look up... or aren't they? I just couldn't help it, I needed to bring them back together... somehow, and who better to help out than Mike Stamford? (Note: His family is borrowed from my one shot about him, "The Quiet Man In The Background", even though this story has nothing to do with that, but he deserves a family... and everything else, really, because we all have a reason to thank him, haven't we). He is just... wonderful. Thank you for existing, oh must wonderful of introducers.
And, forgive me all Mystrade or Sherlolly fans, but I think Molly/Lestrade cute, so I had to drop some hints here...
I'm rambling. Sorry for that too.
I hope you liked it, and please review.