A/N: In terms of Dr John Watson from the Canon, this is set during The Adventure of the Norwood Builder, after The Adventure of the Empty House, and Dr Watson is living in Baker Street once again. In terms of Sherlock, this is set after The Reichenbach Fall. Any quotes that you can identify are from either the original stories by Doyle, or the BBC TV series. FlappieDungeon made me write this story. I hope you'll enjoy it! Do forgive how silly it is. It's the first John-centric story I've ever written, and it is a sort of apology for always focusing on Sherlock instead of the good doctor.

John was sitting by the fireplace, meditating on his life that seemed to have spiralled rapidly downhill ever since the day that Sherlock Holmes took the plunge off the roof of St Bart's. Who could blame him for being in a state of tristesse? Just as he was replaying the events of that dreadful day (not for the first time) in his mind, someone walked through the door.

'Excuse me, what are you doing in my flat?' asked John.

'I beg your pardon? These are my rooms,' said the strange gentleman.

'You've got it wrong. I live here.'

'And so do I, my good man.'

'Well, we can't both live here,' objected John.

'That's a perfectly logical and sound assumption,' was the man's rejoinder.

The discussion seemed to be going nowhere, so John inquired abruptly: 'Who are you?'

'My name is Watson. Dr John Watson. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

John No. 1 snorted in indignation and disbelief. 'You're kidding.'

'I'm not quite sure I follow you,' said John No. 2.

'I'm Dr John Watson.'

John No. 2 frowned slightly. 'We share the same name? What a remarkable coincidence! Might I enquire what your full name is?'

'John Hamish Watson. Here, how do you know my name? And what are you doing in my flat? Do you read my blog? Is that how you know these things?' John No. 1 fired question after question at John No. 2, whom we shall call Dr Watson throughout the rest of this narrative to avoid any further confusion that may arise as a result of referring to the both of them by their Christian names.

'Well, I shall endeavour to answer all of your questions in the correct order. First, I know your name because you kindly mentioned it to me a few seconds ago. Second, this is my place of residence, and I hope that it is not unusual for a man to return to his lodgings for some rest after a hard day's work. Third, I believe you mentioned something about a... "flog"?'

'Blog,' corrected John.

'I'm afraid that I have never come across such a term before. What does it mean?'

'It's basically an online journal,' John explained. 'You must have heard of blogs before.'

'No, I honestly haven't. And what do you mean by "online"? What sort of line are you referring to?'

John rolled his eyes. Was this man serious? Someone must have sent this 'Dr John Watson' here to cheer him up in some peculiar way. Well, it wasn't helping. 'Look, I don't have time for this. It's time for you to go. Now. And tell whoever that sent you that this isn't funny. And what century are your clothes from? Who even wears that any more?'

Dr Watson was highly offended at the slight to his clothes. 'These are all the rage in London at the moment! What, pray, are you wearing?' enquired Dr Watson, casting a disdainful glance at John's jumper and jacket. Then he continued, 'This is my place of residence, whatever you may insist to the contrary, and I recommend that you leave before my fellow lodger comes home. You may have heard of Mr Holmes. He will not take too kindly to strangers that lounge in his favourite armchair.'

John's eyes lit up at the mention of the name 'Holmes'. 'Wait a minute, did you say "Holmes"?'

'Yes, Holmes,' answered Dr Watson, irritably. 'Surely you've heard of Sherlock Holmes before? The only—'

'—consulting detective in the world,' John completed Dr Watson's sentence. 'Yes, I know. I've heard that before.'

'Everyone has heard of Holmes,' remarked Dr Watson with a pleased smile. 'Well, he is due back at any moment now, so—'

John cut in sharply before Watson could continue. 'He isn't coming back. He's dead.'

'He's very much alive, I can assure you.'

John lost his patience. 'Sherlock is dead, all right? I would know, I watched him die. Look, I don't know who sent you, and I don't care. Just leave! Now!'

Dr Watson stood stock-still for a few moments, wondering how he would get the lunatic standing before him out of his home. Then he heard familiar footsteps coming up the staircase.

'John, what's happened? I heard you shouting from downstairs,' said a worried Mrs Hudson.

'Mrs Hudson? You know this man?' asked Dr Watson.

'Oh, Dr Watson! I didn't see you there. So you've met John, have you?'

'Mrs Hudson, what's going on?' questioned John. 'And how do you know this man?'

'Oh dear, I shall try to explain everything, but the both of you will have to listen very carefully.'

'You have our full attention,' Dr Watson assured her. 'Pray proceed, Mrs Hudson.'

'Thank you, Doctor. Okay.' She took a deep breath before continuing. 'You are both the same person: Dr John Watson.'

Both of them frowned, and were just about to open their mouths to protest when Mrs Hudson went on. 'I know it's hard to believe, but one of you is from a book, and the other is from show on the telly.'

John scoffed at the idea. 'The next thing you'll be telling us is that he's' — John gestured at Dr Watson — 'the Doctor, and that he came here in his TARDIS!'

Dr Watson looked understandably confused at the mention of a TARDIS. 'I am not the Doctor. I am a doctor, that much is true, but I am not aware of the existence of a means of transportation known as a "TARDIS". I came to Baker Street as I always do: in a hansom.'

'In a what?' queried John.

'A hansom cab. A two-wheeled horse-drawn cab. Surely you have sat in one before.'

'No, I have not,' said John slowly. 'I haven't even seen a one on the streets before.'

'Dear me! Surely you jest!'

'If anyone's "jesting" around here, it's you. Who on earth would drive a hansom in the 21st century? And who says "jest"?'

'I beg your pardon? Which century?'

'The 21st century!' replied John.

'It's the 19th century,' corrected Dr Watson.

Mrs Hudson decided that it was time for her to intervene before they began fighting over which century they were in. 'Dr Watson, John is right. You are in the 21st century.'

John resisted the urge to say 'I told you so' as they both allowed Dr Watson to digest that new piece of information. Telling a man that he has been transported from the 19th century to the 21st was no laughing matter.

'So, Mrs Hudson, if we're both the same person, then why don't we remember the same things? He said that Sherlock isn't dead. He must remember that if he really is me.'

'Well, he remembers what was written about him by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whereas you remember what has been written about you by the writers of Sherlock.'

John and Dr Watson were nonplussed.

'Oh, look at the both of you! Completely bewildered. Go on then, ask each other questions, and see what you remember.'

The two men merely stared blankly at each other.

'All right, I'll help you get started then. John, when did you meet Sherlock for the first time?'

'When I came back from Afghanistan and was looking for somewhere to stay in London.'

'I presume that you did not want to rusticate in the country either,' interjected Dr Watson.

'Ye-es. I guess you could say so, yeah.'

'And what was the first thing that Sherlock said to you?' prodded Mrs Hudson.

'He thanked me for lending him my phone, then he asked: "Afghanistan or Iraq?"'

'He asked you that? Holmes deduced that I had just returned from Afghanistan instantly.'

'Boys, no fighting,' warned Mrs Hudson, as John prepared to come to the defense of his friend. John clenched his fist, but subsided obediently.

'What was the first case that you worked on together? A Study in Scarlet?' enquired Dr Watson in a more amicable tone.

'Pink. A Study in Pink.'

'You must mean A Study in Scarlet. I published a full account of the case.'

'I wrote about it on my blog,' retorted John.

'Pardon?'

'My blog. That thing I told you about earlier.'

'Oh! Your journal.'

'Yes. That. It's a journal that everyone can read. You see, there's this thing called the Internet, and basically everyone in the world can connect to it, and see everything on it.'

Dr Watson's brow furrowed in confusion. Quite understandable, really, seeing as they had nothing of the sort in the 1800s. 'So everybody can read your blog? Like a newspaper?'

'Not really, but something like that, yeah.'

'And what did you write?'

'Well, I wrote about A Study in Pink, but I also wrote that Sherlock doesn't know whether the sun goes around the earth or vice versa. He wasn't very happy with that.'

'I recorded that in my account of the case too! And Holmes told me that he would do his best to forget it. "If we went round the moon," he said, "it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or my work." I was rather shocked by this, as you may imagine.'

Then Dr Watson continued, 'We worked on The Sign of Four after that. I will never forget the first time that I laid eyes upon my dear wife, Mary.'

'Wait, what?' spluttered John. 'You're— I'm— married?'

'Aren't you?' counter-asked Dr Watson.

'Not that I know of!'

'Well, I am. Or, rather, was. Holmes was not pleased when he heard that I was engaged to Miss Morstan. He gave the most dismal groan and said that he could not congratulate me.'

John chuckled. 'I can't go on a date without him tagging along. It's a surprise that you even managed to get married.'

'Yes. Sadly, Mary passed away. Then Holmes returned miraculously, seemingly from the very jaws of death! That was when I returned to my old lodgings here in Baker Street.'

John didn't say a word in reply.

'Are you all right?'

'Fine,' John answered shortly. Then, after a pause, he added: 'It's just that he's dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. I saw it with my own eyes.'

'That's what I thought too, when I reached the falls of Reichenbach, and all that remained was his Alpine-stock, cigarette case, and a note addressed to me. But he survived!' Dr Watson attempted to comfort John.

'He left you a note as well?'

'Yes.'

'At least your Holmes is still alive,' said John bitterly. 'I saw Sherlock jump off the roof of St Bart's. He said goodbye, and then he jumped. I was too far away to do anything. I saw him lying there on the pavement. Dead.' John struggled visibly to hold himself together and hide his true emotions. 'He was the best friend that I've ever had, and he's gone.'

'Actually,' chipped in Mrs Hudson, 'he isn't.'

'What?'

'Sherlock's alive. They showed him watching you standing by his grave in the last episode of Series 2.'

'You mean that bloody idiot saw me standing by his grave and didn't even bother to let me know that he's actually not dead? Wait till I get my hands on him! Where is he, that stupid, idiotic, brilliant show-off?'

'I don't know, dear. They'll start filming Series 3 next January, and hopefully it will be shown by autumn.'

John shook his head, taking in all the new information. Unbelievable. But Sherlock was alive. That was the most important thing. Sherlock wasn't dead. No doubt, John hadn't a clue where Sherlock was, and wouldn't, not until the next series of Sherlock airs anyway, but the main thing was that Sherlock still lived. Out there. Somewhere. And until he returned, John would keep on waiting for his best friend to come home. He also had plenty of questions that he'd like to ask Dr Watson. And he would like to meet the other Sherlock Holmes as well. Though there was the slight problem of how the three of them would stay in 221B together. Who would sleep where?