The Three Watsons

A/N: Obviously AU. Sorry if any of them are OOC. I welcome reviews!

Disclaimer: Sadly, none of these characters belong to me. Tragic, I know.

Summary: Three Watsons are drawn through time and space, pulled from their respective realities and united in present-day London. Sherlock does not take it well.

Chapter One

London, 2013:

"John!" The plaintive cry of a man locked in a desperate hunt for the orange marmalade rang out across the untidy flat. Sherlock had been absorbed in one of his experiments for the past three days, and now he was hungry. John sighed. "In the fridge, Sherlock," he shouted back, replacing the cushions on the sofa in a futile attempt to tidy the place up before the delivery men arrived with the new kitchen table. It would be their third one this year.

A clinking sound indicated a successful hunt. Moments later, however: "John!" The ex-army doctor sighed again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that, lately. "In the bread bin," he yelled back, opening the heavy black curtains to survey the extent of the damage. "J-"

"You blew up the toaster last week."

Silence reigned for all of four seconds, and then Sherlock was banging around the kitchen again, searching for some unknown culinary implement. "We don't have any eggs," he noted, sticking his head around the door frame to address John. "Oh, really?" he replied sarcastically. "Maybe that's because they usually live in the door, where you're keeping the frozen hand?"

Sherlock considered a moment. "It's in a bag," he said reproachfully. "Really, John, you fuss too much."

-oOo-

Germany, 1898:

"Remind why we're here, again?" Watson's voice was kept to a whisper, but there was no mistaking the irritation in his tone.

The ammunition factory was eerily silent, the usual clanging of machinery conspicuously absent. That was why Holmes had insisted on breaking in via a side gate. It was why Watson had just finished incapacitating three guards and an Alsatian. It was why they were currently hiding behind an enormous shell, listening in on a conversation in German.

Well, Holmes was listening. Watson was fuming.

"Holmes!" he hissed. "I demand to know what's going on!" His companion turned, grimacing at the interruption. "Do keep your voice down, Watson," he chided, adding that "Perhaps if you had concentrated more in your language classes..."

"Not the Germans!" Watson sometimes wondered if Holmes was so abstruse on purpose. "What are we doing here?" Holmes grinned from beneath his borrowed bowler hat.

"Ah! Now that is a most interesting question! We, Watson, are doing nothing. You are going to remain here, on guard, whilst I go and obtain the necessary information from the telegraph officer over there." He pointed to an exposed building, standing in a spotlight. Watson resisted the urge to groan despairingly. "You are not going in there," he countered. "It's a tactician's nightmare!" The building was so obviously a trap, it might as well have had a sign above the door reading 'Moriarty's Fiendish Trap, Wipe Your Feet on the Mat'.

But Holmes was already on the move.

-oOo-

London, 1887:

"The post is here, Watson," announced Holmes, voice muffled by the Times. He was examining the police statement on a recent spate of burglaries with growing disbelief. A moment later, a handful of envelopes rattled to the floor.

"Brilliant," murmured Watson to himself, smiling as he picked up the letters. "Let's see... Two letters for you, probably about a case, one for me from the surgery and..."

"And one from the man we helped last week, including a letter of thanks and a cheque for somewhere in the region of twenty pounds." Holmes peered out over the top of his newspaper to examine the letters in Watson's hand. "Only one about a case, actually, and one from my dentist."

"How...?" Watson stared a moment.

"It was simplicity itself, Watson," Holmes replied. "But I won't tell you just yet – examine the envelopes carefully and tell me what you deduce. But first, breakfast!" he declared, leaping from his armchair and making for the door. He swung it open, revealing Mrs. Hudson and a tray of toast and eggs on the other side.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, taking the tray from her. "Watson, the tea, if you will." The doctor managed to exchange an apologetic glance with their landlady before Holmes had closed the door. He shook his head wonderingly as he ambled into the kitchen in search of the teapot.

Living with such genius could be trying at times.