This has probably been done before (I've read very little Holmes fanfic), but I still intend to enjoy it. Expect lots of short chapters, mostly because I don't really know where it's going.

11 April - RE-WRITTEN. This makes way more sense as a first-person thing.

xXx

Sherlock and I had just finished breakfast when it happened.

There was a flash of blue light, and then everything went black. I woke up lying on a hard surface, listening to unfamiliar voices.

Two voices, both male, spoke at once.

"Wake up, John."

"Do get up, Watson."

They stopped. There was a pause. The one nearer me spoke. "His name is John Watson?"

The other answered. "Yes. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson."

"...Likewise."

That seemed...unlikely. I opened my eyes, but all I could see in the harsh white lights was white marble floor and a white marble table and steel chairs with white fabric seats.

"I'm sorry, what?" a new voice asked. "Sherlock, where are we?"

"I have dozens of ideas, John, but none of them seem probable."

"Oh, do get up, Watson," came from across the table. "Whatever drug was used on us produces nothing but a slight headache."

There was a grunt, as another man hauled himself to his feet. "Holmes, who is this?"

"Sherlock Holmes, apparently."

The nearer John spoke again, sounding as bewildered as I felt. "Good Lord, there's two of them."

"Three, actually." Sherlock - my Sherlock - got to his feet. He was still wearing the worn sweater he'd put on before breakfast, and he hadn't shaved. I wondered if he regretted it. Probably not. "For a moment I thought I was back in rehab."

I looked up at him, and he offered me a hand. "This is my apprentice, Joan Watson. Also a surgeon, I might add."

There was a sputtering sound from across the table. A burly gentleman with a blond mustache was staring at me indignantly. His suit looked like something from the Victorian era. The man standing next to him was tall and thin, with a long face, dark thinning hair, and what looked like a purple velvet bathrobe worn over his shirt. I guessed the tall, thin one was a Sherlock Holmes (a Sherlock Holmes. What a strange thought.) and the blond one was John Watson. Sherlock would never wear a suit that fussy.

"Former surgeon," I corrected Sherlock. I looked around at the room, pulled out the chair in front of me and sat down. "I don't suppose there's any water."

A pitcher of water and several glasses appeared on the table in front of me.

I stared at them, then shakily poured myself a glass of water and drank it. It wasn't an illusion. It tasted like water. It had appeared out of thin air, with no more fuss than a little shimmering.

I distracted myself by looking around the room. It was a round room, with high ceilings and a clinical feel. The white marble table was pentagonal, with two chairs on each side. The surface had black glass insets here and there. Some sort of touchscreen, maybe? The walls were covered in shelves and wire racks, all empty except one, which was piled with books.

The side of the table to our left was empty, and the one beyond that had the Victorian Holmes and Watson. To our right was the other set of men. One was tall and thin and wore a button-down shirt which only made him look taller and thinner. His sharp cheekbones saved his face from being narrow, and his thick lips were currently tightly pressed together. The other man was shorter and looked more bewildered, but I liked his military jacket.

A groan came from across the table. A dark-haired woman got to her feet. She wore a high-necked dark dress, a locket around her neck and a plain gold band on her finger, and ink stains on her left hand.

"I suppose your name is also Watson," said the Victorian Holmes.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Russell, actually. Mary Russell." She turned to help the man with her to his feet. "This is Sherlock Holmes." He was dressed in a filthy coat pulled over a ragged-looking shirt.

He tipped his disreputable cap to Holmes. "Pleasure, guv," he squeaked cheerfully, his accent making the words difficult to understand.

The other three Holmses tilted their heads slightly in almost identical gestures of consideration. No one spoke for a moment. "Your G is too gutteral for a proper Cockney," said the Victorian Holmes.

"Indeed," replied the Holmes in rags, in more refined accents. "I have always found the G of the Cockney and the G of the Welsh miner to be curiously similar, haven't you?"

"Similar, yes, but then I believe you may trace..." Victorian Holmes moved towards him, and I stopped listening. I'd long ago learned to tune Sherlock out when he got going, and apparently these versions were no different.

"Four Sherlock Holmeses. This must be what going mad feels like." The shorter man next to us sat at the table and put his head in his hands. I recognized his voice as John, so the tall one with dark curly hair must be Sherlock.

"I think it might be Sherlocks Holmes, actually," responded my Sherlock, sitting next to me and adjusting the set of his sweater.

"If you were using a title, it would be Misters Sherlock Holmes, which would at least pluralize the correct noun," suggested Mary Russell.

"Are we really having this argument?" I asked. "Where are we?"

"Sherlock was saying that none of his ideas seem probable," John offered.

"That's not the way to approach it," corrected Holmes across the table, breaking off his lecture about Welsh consonants and pulling a pipe - an actual pipe - out of the pocket of his bathrobe. "When you have eliminated the impossible..."

"Oh, granted," interrupted the Sherlock next to us, picking up the pitcher of water from in front of me and carrying it back to his section of the table. "But that's just the trick, isn't it?"