Author's note: It's about to reach its climax... at least I think so. You can never really tell with these stories of mine, I'm afraid.

It's time for some much-needed introspection on Sherlock's part. I know that he seems rather aloof in the show, but in this situation, with all relationships and feelings so open and jumbled together, I think it's time to know where he stands.

Also – and I know and am sorry that I'm just procrastinating the interesting stuff – there is going to be a conversation between Mycroft, John and Greg – we get a back story on Sherlock in this universe.

I don't own anything and please review.

Mycroft prepares a good dinner – once again, Sherlock has to admit, maybe he should visit him more often in his world – and they try to keep up small talk during the course of it, never mind their plan of bringing down the greatest criminal London has ever seen.

But, even ignoring Moriarty, Sherlock has a rather hard time to listen, because...

God knows, he hasn't thought much about it, but he always assumed his friends would be better of without him. Well, not "always" of course. In his darkest moments. In the dark, alone, trying to bring down Moriarty's web, feeling lonely and helpless... Then, and only then, when he thought of the people he'd left behind, this awful thought had appeared...

That it would be infinitely better for his friends if they'd never met him.

In a way.

He never thought...

Greg just tells things about...
Divorce.
Unsolved cases.
Sherlock turned his world upside down.

And John...
Not being able to do anything.
Restless.
Unhappy.
No purpose.
And then a drug addict decided to talk to him.

Even Mycroft – and Sherlock was convinced, utterly convinced, that his older brother always wished he was an only child...
No job.
No occupation.
Nothing.

Sherlock always hated stories about people who had an accident or fell into a coma or escaped death in some way or another and saw life with other eyes afterwards. But even he can't deny...

He hasn't been the same, ever since he jumped – or seems to jump – to his death off the roof of St Bart's. The day he was proved wrong all along.

The day he found out he had a heart.

And now... he's even surprised at his reactions, here, in this strange, twisted reality. He wouldn't have thought he'd be relieved that Mike Stamford of all people still lives a rather happy life, for one.

And at the same time, he isn't really surprised at all, though that doesn't make sense, because he's always cared, in a way, if only for certain people. Trying to shut oneself out from all emotions doesn't mean automatic success. He wanted to be high-functioning sociopath, but at the same time, he's always been aware that he could never really be one.

Which is probably for the best, considering the terms "sociopath" and "psychopath" seem to be interchangeable, and looking at Moriarty.

"My, I think you should kick him under the table, he's doing the lost-in-his-head thing again" Greg says, downing another glass of the Whiskey Mycroft put in front of him before dinner started.

"I am aware of my brothers' moods, Inspector, I have known him for far longer than you have".

"That may be true, but you don't do anything about it, and what's the fun in that?"

John suddenly has a look in his eyes that Sherlock knows all too well – his friend just realized that, yes, Mycroft has known his brother his whole life and may therefore be able to answer some questions the doctor has.

Sherlock also knows that nothing can stop John when he's convince he's doing the best for everyone involved.

Might as well give him an opportunity to ask his questions, then.

He excuses himself immediately after dinner to take a shower and "get out of these clothes", to which of course Greg replies, "Hey, until now they were the best you'd seen in a few years, mate".

As soon as he has left the room, Mycroft turns to John. "Alright. You have questions."

John hesitates. Even Greg is silent for once; apparently the DI is curious about Sherlock's past too.

"Mr. Holmes" John says, slowly. "Sherlock... why did he ever start to take drugs? He doesn't seem the type".

"Nice of you to ask about me too, John" Greg says sharply. "I know I don't seem the type either, but you know how it goes..."

Mycroft shoots him a glare and the DI actually shuts his mouth. Then he stands up and walks to a little side table. He opens a drawer and takes out the picture Sherlock gave him yesterday.

He shows it to them, and even Greg seems to be somewhat touched. John, for his part, just seems more confused than before – he probably assumed that Mycroft and Sherlock never got on. And who can blame him, when you look at the mess their lives have become.

"It's hard to explain" Mycroft starts, softly. "Our parents weren't very affectionate, we only ever had each other. But I'm seven years older than Sherlock – I couldn't be around him at all times. Of course, a boy like him got bullied at school and started to believe he was a "freak". I tried my best, but – it was difficult. And then I went to university, and – " he takes a deep breath and quickly makes his face appear indifferent.

Or tries to, at least.

"I think, My, you will find that the time of playacting has passed" Greg comments. "Stop it. We all know you care."

Mycroft looks at the DI and for a moment John fears he's going to provoke an argument, but then his features soften. "I suppose you are right".

He clears his throat."Sherlock was eleven when I left. We barely saw each other in the course of the next five years – I was busy getting my degree and building up connections. Though I won't deny I should have kept a closer eye on him.

I visited our mother – our father had passed away a few years prior – one day when he was sixteen – and it was then that I realized he was taking drugs. Not cocaine – not yet. But he was on his way there.

And I thought it sufficient to talk to him sternly, to reproach him. I acted like a parent he didn't want instead of like the older brother he needed.

He finished school and went to university, but, by this time, the drugs were more important to him than anything else. He left it without a degree.

By the time he was twenty, he was taking cocaine. And he never stopped.

At first, I had surveillance on him – "

"Of course you had" Greg says, but not sharply for a change. His eyes are actually rather soft, and his voice betrays a certain – understanding?

John stares at Mycroft, seemingly lost for words.

"Then –" Mycroft resumes, but has to pause for a moment. "I'm not proud of it" he finally admits. "But, in the course of time – over the years – I tried to talk him into rehab. I tried to be there for him, but he didn't want me to. So I – I stopped caring, or tried to, at least. I let him fall of the grid, because – because I couldn't bear to see him like this, because I knew it would only hurt me in the long run, because it was easier – "

His voice breaks a little and then, suddenly, John swallows and nods. "I know the feeling. My older sister – "

"Sherlock told me" Mycroft says quietly, and Greg seems to remember John's back story too and actually puts down the glass he was just raising to his lips.

"It's alright Greg, that doesn't bother me" John smiles.

"I'm not doing you because you're bothered – I'm doing it out of respect" Greg answers.

Mycroft clears his throat.

"The last straw was that he had pawned the violin I gave him for his birthday years ago. Although I did get it back – it's still in his old room, even as we speak.

"Now and then, of course, I'd notice he still was in the city. I would see him, out of the corner of my eye. I would realize someone had been in the house to use the bathroom when I returned. My wallets kept disappearing, though always the one I kept in the easier-to-access pocket, the one I didn't keep the picture in, the one where I" he falls silent.

"The one where you kept more cash so he could live comfortably for a while?" John suggests, and Mycroft nods.

"The last one went missing only a few weeks ago – I had spent the evening in the theatre. Which explains why Sherlock didn't notice something was amiss or that I didn't work anymore – naturally, I was in a suit. But this time, he took the one with the picture. I was sure – I was convinced – that he'd got rid of it. Thrown it away at best, destroyed it at the worst. Either way, I was certain I'd never see it again – " He takes the picture in his hand and looks at it.

"And then he suddenly stood in front of you holding it and everything was so unbelievable, but made sense at the same time" Greg provides, sounding far more sober than he did at the beginning of the conversation.

Mycroft looks at him. "So there's still something in you that cares?"

"My one weakness" Greg answers and smiles. Mycroft answers with a smile of his own.

"But, yes, you are quite correct. And, anyway – it' just – I prefer to have him near me. Even with all this history between us".

Meanwhile, Sherlock is taking a shower and can't help the sigh of satisfaction that escapes his lips when he feels the hot water on his skin.

Then his head starts hurting, the world spins around him –

"No, we are not discontinuing the treatment!" The blonde man seems angry and sounds rather dangerous. "We will do anything that's necessary to help him and bring him back."

"I suggest you do what Doctor Watson says" Mycroft says, calm and polite as always, but there seems to be a tremor in his voice.

"What's going on?" The silver-haired man just entered the room, followed by the young woman, apparently they went to get coffee for everyone.

"They believe – they think – " The blonde man is silent and Sherlock rather wishes he could see the faces of the doctors.

The silver-haired man seems to glower at them. "I may not have a medical degree, but I know John Watson – you better do what he wants".

Sherlock can feel the pull, but he wants to stay, though he doesn't know why, he just feels it is important...

He wakes up in the shower, the water beating on his hand.

No. Don't discontinue the treatment. I may be stuck here forever.

He forces himself to breathe, dries and dresses himself. Then, because he doesn't yet feel capable of facing Mycroft, John and Greg, he visits his old room. He sits down on the bed. Tries to calm himself.

At least John is looking out for him. And Greg. And Mycroft. As well as Molly and Mrs. Hudson and even Angela, apparently.

He will get back. He has to get back.

Then his glance falls on the bedside table, and a grin splits his face.

Mycroft really got his violin back.

He takes comfort in the familiar feel of the instrument in his hands and starts to play. Music has always called him, given him an anchor.

Mycroft, John and Greg haven't said a word for ten minutes – but the silence is comfortable – when the music starts.

They look at each other and smile.

Sherlock can play. No doubt about that.

And there is a spark of hope in Mycroft's chests when he remembers that his brother shouldn't be able to play so well – he hasn't played for years.

Maybe there is truth in what he says, after all.

When Sherlock returns downstairs, they don't mention it.

They debate their plan.

Greg is going to visit Lady Brackenstall, early next morning, and let slip that Sherlock Holmes figured out what Moriarty did. It will make him curious, and he'll most likely want to meet Sherlock.

Then –

They agree that they don't want to be murderers, but there doesn't seem to be another option. They can't prove anything, and Moriarty won't give himself up.

Once Moriarty wants to meet Sherlock, they will check out the place, and Mycroft and John will lie in wait. Greg will be at Sherlock's side.

And then –

A dead Moriarty is better than a living one, they all know it.

But still...

Sherlock tries not to think about...

"I'm you"

"Thank you" Moriarty said before he shot himself. Because he knew what this would turn Sherlock into – a murderer. A torturer. A vigilante.

He shakes his hand. None of the other mention it.

It's risky, but it's the only thing they can do.

And Sherlock is starting to suspect that –

The only way to return home is to see the case to its end.

Author's note: I know. Trust me, the way this is going is surprising me too. When I started this story, I didn't think it would be a close look at Sherlock's feelings and relationships, and now... well, this is how it works, I guess, and at least I'm having fun. I hope you still want to continue reading, by the way. If it gets annoying or boring, just tell me.

Mind: Nothing I do is boring.

Me: Well, but we know everyone is just waiting for Moriarty to show up...

Mind: Right. Let's immediately...

Me: No. Please.

Mind: You started complaining.

Me: I'm not... Never mind.

Also: I got more followers for this story – I have over fifty now, it's unbelievable. I'm so happy.

I hope you liked this chapter, and please review.