Author's note: So, hello Mycroft, again... didn't even plan this, but the British Government doesn't really have to ask for permission.
And I got so many more followers, and reviews, and favourites – I am incredibly happy with the response to this story.
I don't own anything, and please review.
„Sherlock, just to be sure, tell me again" John interrupts the silence in the cab, „we are going to the house of your brother, who used to be the British Government, before Moriarty and this – dominatrix blackmailed the Royal family and he was fired, but he's just as smart as you, and he wants to help is. Is that correct?"
"Yes, you got it" Sherlock answers rather abstractedly, lost in his thoughts.
Mycroft has never acted that way in the real world, in the world he remembers. Maybe when they were children, that is when Sherlock was four and Mycroft eleven, yes, but since his brother went to university...
So what does it mean that his subconscious apparently decided that Mycroft was the best big brother imaginable? Or that John doubted him? And Lestrade, an alcoholic with a worldview cynical enough to be invented by Oscar Wilde?
He prefers not to think about that.
Greg, meanwhile, is in great spirits, and it's not difficult to think of a reason. He doesn't have anything against Dimmock – he has ensured Sherlock and John of that at least seven times in the past five minutes – but still, he is... rather pleased that Molly doesn't want anything more from the DS.
"Did you see how she looked at me after she'd sent Dimmock on his way?"
"Yes, Greg, and I believe we told you that three times in the course of this cab ride" Sherlock explains, with a patience he never had before (wouldn't his John love this).
"Yeah" John elaborates "All you have to do now is stop drinking and off you go".
Greg shrugs his shoulders, looking for his flask. "Nobody's perfect. Sherlock, I know where it is."
Sherlock closes his mouth and looks out the window, at a London that is not his, but then again...
London isn't the town he left three years ago, and he knows it. He is still in his disguise, because, though he'd like nothing more than to tell John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade that he's back, Colonel Moran is still active. First of all, he has to speak to Mycroft. Then he can tell everyone else the truth. And, he supposes, it's time to send Molly a text.
Three years. He's been alone for three years, and though he tries to hide it, these three years left traces. He's not the same man that left all of this behind three years ago...
"John, would you do me a favour and hit him?" Greg asks, rather politely. "You're sitting next to him, and I would have to stretch over".
While John doesn't hit him – Sherlock's reaction is too quick for that – Greg's comment brings him back to this something he's supposed to call reality for now.
"Thank you, no need".
"Really? Felt like you were lost in your head again".
"How can you feel that from all the way over there?"
"All the way over John, you mean? Easy. He isn't the tallest guy around".
"John, remind me again why I ever let him come with us."
"Because he is the first one who believed in you and to have a policeman on your side is never a bad thing?"
"I suppose you are right".
They don't say anything more until they arrive at Mycroft's mansion.
Greg gets out of the cab, mouth hanging open. "This is where your brother lives? 'Lock, how on earth did you ever get into drugs?"
"I don't know – in this reality" Sherlock replies, not eager to disclose that he also took drugs in his real old life.
John seems to understand, but he only shoots Sherlock a glance, without asking the obvious question "So in the other life you knew the reason?" while Greg takes another sip from his flask, just to prepare himself for meeting another Holmes.
Sherlock knocks, and the door opens immediately. He's relieved to find Mycroft in a suit, though without his umbrella, this time. He doesn't think he could have got used to his brother wearing casual.
"Sherlock. And these are..." his eyes wander over Greg and John, and Sherlock is painfully aware that his brother is as good in the art of deduction as himself.
"Yes, Mycroft, this" he gestures towards his right "is DI Greg Lestrade" who has thankfully put away his flask by now "and this" he gestures towards his left "is Doctor John Watson."
Mycroft simply says "Hello, how are you" and lets them in.
Greg, still rather open-mouthed, stares at the hall, while John, even years of loneliness and bitterness can't make him forget his manners completely, apparently, tries to make small talk with Mycroft. "You really have a beautiful house".
"Thank you" Mycroft replies, then turns to Sherlock.
"At least one of your new friends seems to be capable of a certain level of common courtesy. I'm afraid I can't say the same about... DI Lestrade here, though".
"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, you'll get used to it or learn to ignore me" Greg says cheerfully. "That's how it usually goes".
"I don't doubt that".
"I hope we don't inconvenience you or the missus..." Greg obviously tries to take a page from John's book, although the effect is rather less pleasing when the one who tries to make polite conversation is once again searching for his flask.
"I live alone".
"Of course. Sherlock's brother. Sorry, forget all about that. Asexual, then?"
Mycroft shoots Sherlock a look that says "Really?" which Greg answers with "You know, I may be drunk, but I still haven't managed to drink myself blind".
"Right then. Why don't we go in the dining room. I am sure I will find you something to eat." He looks at Greg. "I have alcohol too, if you prefer liquid nourishment".
"Thank you, I do eat now and then. But I'd say nothing against something liquid to go with my nourishment."
"Naturally". Mycroft turns to Sherlock. "And... do you need..."
"No, I'm fine" Sherlock replies, and in fact, he's rather certain that his high will last for another two hours. "I have... backup too. I just need a place to..." He stops. Telling Greg he's going to shoot up is one thing, but telling his brother...
Mycroft nods. "But, nevertheless, I think you'll be happy to hear that I still have some of your old clothes upstairs... I didn't mention it yesterday because I thought..."
He reddens, and Sherlock understands. Mycroft hoped that the ill-fitted clothes he's still wearing would be another incentive for Sherlock to return; He didn't tell him before he went because he was afraid his brother would just put on his real clothes and disappear.
Luckily, Greg interrupts the moment, because Sherlock isn't sure how he would've reacted next. He could – Good God. If Greg wouldn't interrupt, maybe he's actually hug is brother. But the DI does, though John, convinced as he is that a family needs this kinds of moments, tries to stop him with a hand wave.
"Booze and I get my clothes back? I like you already."
Mycroft wisely decides to ignore this and leads them to the dining room.
Where he has already prepared all the information he ever got about Moriarty, apparently. Which leads Sherlock to discover another twenty undetected murders in the last three years. And these were not even arranged by Moriarty, he fears, but – when he sees the lack of evidence and the fact that no one, no one profited from the death of his people – but actually committed by him, which means the consulting criminal broke his rule number one, "Never do anything yourself, so no one will ever get to you". Moriarty must be spiralling out of control with nothing to occupy his mind. Like his obsession with Sherlock did, in the real world.
He has nothing to do, nothing to challenge him, and now he's randomly killing people. And no one knows.
Just when Sherlock thought Moriarty couldn't be any more dangerous.
They look at their "evidence" – that would never last in court, but still, they have enough to convince themselves that Moriarty has built a web, the web Sherlock spent three years unravelling, and his stomach clenches when he wonders how much bigger that web must be now – and debate for hours what they should do. It certainly doesn't help that Greg eventually points out "You had to pretend to commit suicide to get rid of him – when you were clean and at the top of your game, 'Lock" here Mycroft raises an eyebrow "Not you, too, please. But – now? Just look at us. We're an alcoholic, a druggie, a cripple and a – " He looks at Mycroft and frowns. "A British Government that wasn't re-elected" he finally finishes the sentence.
"That was downright considerate, Inspector, I am impressed" Mycroft states. "But nonetheless – and I am aware that this is strange enough – he is right, Sherlock".
"Okay, that's it, I'm calling you My, just to annoy you" Greg comments, fishing the (by now) fourth flask out of his jacket.
"How do you know it annoys me?"
"Sherlock? He is asexual too, right? Right?"
Sherlock doesn't answer, if only to annoy Greg.
"Back to the problem at hand. We need to draw him out – and, like I said, our best bet is for Greg to scare Lady Brackenstall."
"Won't Moriarty just have his people deal with DI Lestrade?" Mycroft asks.
"Not if we make him curious – if Greg manages to let slip that someone who helps the police figured it out..."
"I understand. You are the target." John's brows furrow.
"I'm used to it. And better me than the whole population of London."
Mycroft opens his mouth and closes it again. Swallows. Stands up.
"It's getting dark. I'll see what the kitchen has to offer".
He leaves the room.
"You know, he is worried about you, Sherlock" John says.
"I'm aware of it, John, thanks." Sherlock answers, rather more abruptly than he would have liked to reply, feelings dizzy. His head hurts and his skin itches, and –
Oh. He forgot his dose in the excitement of the case. Greg seems to think they same.
"Mate, you might want to excuse yourself for a moment. You don't look your best".
Sherlock nods and makes his way to the living room.
He makes sure to take enough cocaine to last again for several hours – it's exhausting, really, this calculating and the high and the withdrawal symptoms, and he wishes, as he plunges in the needle, that he could just wake up –
"He will wake up soon, John, he has to. It will all work out. I've known him longer than you, remember".
"That doesn't mean you think he's a good enough man to wake up and put us out of our misery, Greg". The voice of the blond man is cold.
The silver-haired man cringes. "John..."
"No, Greg, I'm sorry. I'm tired and I'm worried and I can't lose him again, and – "
"No, John, you are right. I should have noticed it when I first met him."
"Noticed what?"
"That he is a good man. No matter what other people say."
"Make sure not to tell him that when he wakes up, his ego probably couldn't take it."
There's a small smile in the voice of the blond man.
Sherlock tries to pull himself awake, he doesn't know why, he only realizes that it's important, but he can't, and he's pulled back under, and there's nothing he can do...
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles. "It's nothing. I just had to..." he waves the needle.
Mycroft looks at it. "Yes. Yes. Of course." A short silence. "I'm going to make dinner, I have enough in the house."
"Great. Were you looking for me?"
"No, I just, I mean – No. I was..."
"Trying to clear your head?" Sherlock smiles bitterly. "I know the feeling".
Mycroft sits down next to him, and Sherlock recognizes the way he's sitting down; his brother wants to talk.
"Sherlock..." Mycroft sighs. "I want to believe you, I really do. But... I can't. Not really."
"I understand". He probably couldn't believe it either, if the roles were reversed. "But you will help me, doubts notwithstanding?"
"Of course". Mycroft looks at him, then says, slowly, "Sherlock, once we've caught Moriarty, and this is over – should you not be able to "return to reality"..."
"Then I would do what I promised you yesterday" Sherlock replies curtly.
Mycroft actually smiles, then squeezes his hand. "I'm glad to have you back, Sherlock". He hesitates. "Please, tell me again, I've been thinking about it the whole day... I understand that – you and I – we understood each other better in what you call the real world?"
"Not really – before I died and returned, that is. But afterwards... Like I said, a clean slate."
"A clean slate. I like that." And then Mycroft asks something that Sherlock never thought he would.
"Sherlock – how did you do it? These three years? You don't – you seem haunted".
"Because I am" and the truth rolls easily from Sherlock's tongue, maybe because he's only ever spoken about it to drunk Greg. "It's hard not to think about it – the memories have the annoying ability to tumble all over my mind palace."
"You do know you did the right thing?"
"Yes, of course."
"I don't think there's an "Of course" about it, brother mine. You should... if all this should just be a dream, a parallel universe, whatever you deign to call it – you should talk to your friends about it."
"I will. To you, too".
Mycroft squeezes his hand again, clears his throat and stands up. "Right, let's see what I can make for dinner – and which alcohol I can put into the capable hands of DI Lestrade."
"Capable?"
"Of finishing it off" Mycroft says, smiling. Then he leaves the room.
While the brothers are talking, John and Greg sit in the dining room. When Greg takes another gulp from his fourth flask, John finally asks, "How do you do it?"
"Drink? It's quite easy. I put the flask to my mouth and..."
"No. Believing Sherlock, trusting him so easily."
Greg shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know. I saw him and something just – clicked. I felt that I trusted him, even before he told me his story – I would have trusted him even without him picking me up and making me breakfast. I felt I had to believe him, and not only because my life was utterly meaningless before he showed up. Something about him just... Can't you feel it?"
John looks at Greg for a moment, then nods. "Yes, I – I ran away from the trust, really. I don't know why, but – I trust him. I do. I trusted him the moment I saw him, there on the street. I'm sure that I'll always trust him, as a matter of fact. And it scares me."
"Same here, mate. We'll just have to go on trusting him and hoping the best". Then they smile at each other and wait for the brothers to return.
Author's note: As you can probably guess, the whole chapter was an excuse for the two conversations... I really wanted to write those. But at least they are working on a plan to defeat Moriarty, so... that counts too, right?
Mind: Yes! Moriarty! Woohoo! On with it.
Me: This chapter is longer, I deserve a break till tomorrow.
Mind: No you don't.
Me:... This is utterly pointless.
Mind: I agree with you there.
I hope you liked it, and please review.