Chapter One

Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to BBC and Gatiss & Moffat, not me unfortunately!

"- so how did you really find the missing key?" John asked, and popped the last fried popsticker into his mouth.

Sherlock, whose gaze had been shifting between the other diners, probably for the purpose of deduction, looked back at John. A shadow of annoyance passed over his face. "I told you, it was obvious from the start. Didn't really need any more clues than the woman's broken nail – the rest was just-"

"For show?" John filled in for him, shaking his head. "Why do you never admit that you need a little more than a single clue to find the answer. I mean, come on, a broken nail, Sherlock? Just admit that you don't always know everything from the start!"

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "But then I'd be lying."

John groaned. "Of course, the genius is perfect in each and every way and is never wrong, only other people are."

"I never said that."

"See!" John cried out. "You're always contradicting me, always!"

He was about to continue when he had to fall silent as a waiter appeared to clear the table. Another showed immediately after with a kettle of jasmine tea and two fortune cookies.

When he had left John took a deep breath and reminded himself why they had come here: lately there had been a strain in their relationship – somehow every conversation they had ended in a fight or at least an argument. So John had proposed to come to this traditional Chinese restaurant in the outskirts of London in the hope that, for a moment at least, the bickering would end.

He snorted. So much for that.

Sherlock, seemingly have forgotten that he was irritated just minutes ago, lit up as he picked up his fortune cookie. "Lottery ticket number," he persumed or deduced, John didn't really know nor care anymore.

Sighing, John picked up his own and was about to crack it open when something happened that would come to rock their world.

Literally.

All of a sudden, without warning, the ground started to shake. Wine and water glasses toppled off the table and broke into a million pieces. The fortune cookies slid out of their hands and they slid off of their chairs. Concrete dust rained from the ceiling and John was for a moment very seriously afraid that the ceiling would crack and fall down on them.

But very strangely, the earthquake – (how could it have been an earthquake? John wondered, an earthquake in London of all places?!) – ceased almost as quickly as it had begun.

Bewildered, John and Sherlock looked at eachother. Despite the circumstances, John felt a twinge of satisfaction as he saw the consulting detective look completely taken by surprise. It was not often he could enjoy such an expression upon his friend's face.

The management of the restaurant came out of the kitchen and apologized to all the guests, as if it had been their fault. John had to assure them that they were fine and that they didn't have to worry for a good 20 minutes before he and Sherlock could leave.

For some reason though, as they hailed a cab and drove through night-time London, it looked as if nobody had at all been affected by the earthquake. John saw people walking about as if nothing at all had happened. It made him frown but he was not in the mood to ask Sherlock for advice. The latter was sitting quiet and distant anyway, staring at some point in front of him, perhaps also wondering about the strange events that had occured.

As soon as they arrived at 221B, they both retreated to their rooms without exchanging another word. John would have liked to have spoken to Mrs. Hudson about the earthquake, maybe she had seen something on the telly, but it was late and he didn't want to wake her. So he went to bed early and wasn't even disturbed as he heard Sherlock starting to play a melancholy tone on his violin...

He awoke with what felt like the nastiest hangover he had ever had. Strange, since he hadn't had anything but a glass of red last night. He rubbed his face and stumbled out of bed. A nice long bath would do the trick, he thought. It had always helped when he'd had a killer hangover in his teen years.

As he crossed the living room, he rubbed his sore eyes and finally opened them fully – and stopped.

He felt his jaw fall open.

What he saw was himself coming out of Sherlock's bedroom. Like a mirror image in physical form. But a mirror image that had a life of its own it seemed, yawning and stretching, with only a sheet wrapped around him, something that Sherlock always-

He froze. No, no way. No no no.

With trembling fingers he felt his hair. Curls, and lots of them. And as he looked down on his body his limbs had seemingly grown several inches, the pyjamas now too short on both the arms and legs.

He looked up again and the other John stared back at him, a look of utmost horror upon him.

"John?" the other John asked.

"Sherlock?" John replied in Sherlock's baritone voice.

"Aw, shit," they both said in unison.

Hey, be a John and leave a review! Or be a Sherlock and count all the flaws (but in a constructive way)! Or be a Mycroft and follow this story without doing any of the former! In every case, I'll be a Molly if you read ;)