Title: Groundhog Day (День Сурка)

Author: Remine

Translator: LaSuen

Beta: blackorchestrafreak

Paring: John/Sherlock

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: We do not own anything.

Summary: John has to relive the same day all over again. The title speaks for itself.

T/N: As always, thankful to the author who gave me permission to English-morph her fanfiction work, and forever indebted to my wonderful beta. The story is going to have 5 chapters. Remember that reviews are love and inspiration! We hope you're going to enjoy it as much as we did.

Chapter 1

Everything happens for a reason; there has to be an attainable objective. The fact that John hasn't figured that out just yet doesn't mean there isn't one. It's easier for John to think that there is a reason somewhere, at least; otherwise he can't understand for the life of him why it keeps happening.

He's been given a chance. No, not the second chance. If John's calculations are right, it's his one hundred and thirty first. It is the chance to relive, time and again, the 4th of December, 2010. An ordinary, entirely uneventful day, save for the fact that it's stuck on rewind.

But why? What is he supposed to do in order to stop this everlasting rigmarole?

There's absolutely nothing going on around him he could change for the better. There has come a day of utter stillness in the frantic life he has led from the moment he met Sherlock. Although, as a matter of fact, there could have been quieter times earlier, but to that point John has a rather vague recollection of what happened before the 4th of December. One way or another, Sherlock never ceases to complain about the downtime; he is always bored. Sometimes John can't hold back a nervous chuckle – there has been nothing going on in his life for two months.

If someone were in danger and John was meant to save them…

If his help was required to solve an especially complicated crime…

If there was something happening in the world that he could have the slightest influence over… Although, of course, John isn't inclined to think of himself quite as highly as to expect to be the world's savior, but he could at least warn the world about an appalling earthquake, or a terrible plane crash, or perhaps he could prevent some other grave incident.

But. Nothing. Is. Happening.

John has already memorised the TV programming for the 4th of December airing on the majority of the accessible channels; he has meticulously gone through all famous news websites; he has read a whole bunch of papers and magazines, but all in vain. It seems as though someone has pushed a time button to grant a respite for the maddening life around - for the whole of twenty four hours of the day.

Thus, the idea of changing the world into a better place was out the window. There was, though, left an option to change himself for the better. It was selfish and silly to presume that the charmed circle of the 4th of December was concocted personally for the sake of John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and presently modest physician of one of the London hospitals, but he still held out a hope of waking up on the 5th one day.

# # #

The alarm clock rings with insolent persistence at six thirty in the morning. The very first thing John is going to do after all of that is over is to change the monotonous strum of the clock to something, anything else.

Slamming the button and switching off the pestering rhythm, John is sick and tired to his utmost core. He tucks his head into the pillow, indulging in warm covers for a few minutes more. A long time ago – a hundred and thirty days ago, to be precise – he would've got up very quickly, dressed himself, eaten his breakfast and headed straight to work, just as any other respectable citizen. Instead, groping for the mobile phone buried under his pillow, he calls Sarah and greets her with a voice hoarse from sleep:

"Good morning, Sarah. Yes, I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well today. No, just a usual cold, nothing to worry about. But you know I can't see any patients today in a condition like this. Yes, of course, I'll ask my landlady to make a chicken broth for me. Yes, I'll take a hot cup of milk with honey. Don't worry, Sarah, it's just one day off. I'm positively sure I'll get better by tomorrow. Good as new. Yes, of course. Thank you."

He felt a little ashamed when he did it for the first time. He never pretended to be unwell, not since his school years, but no power on earth could possibly force him into spending yet another day working at the hospital. He was supposed to have fifteen patients that day: six before lunch and nine afterwards. Twelve of those were down with a simple cold, two had an allergy, and the last one was faking. Eight women, seven men. John could list every aspect of their life down to the last detail. It was unbearably tedious. Anything would be better than listening to the same heap of complains all over again. They could get themselves another doctor, and no one would ever know that John deceived Sarah into thinking he was sick. Thankfully, now the whole day is at his disposal.

Lazily stretching his sleepy limbs, John scrambles out of the warm, cozy covers. Mrs. Hudson saves on the heating, turning it on only during the day, which practically makes his bedroom endure something of an ice age overnight, cooling it down to a drastic level. Why couldn't he be stuck on a balmy spring day, or during a sunny summer day? Hastily, John puts on his old saggy jumper over a thick t-shirt, slides his feet into his loafers and goes downstairs into their living room.

The detective lies sprawled out on the sofa, eyes buried into the screen of his laptop. John has found out that Sherlock slept not more than four hours on the previous night, but even that can be considered quite an achievement. When they are in the middle of an especially tangled investigation, his frenetic flatmate can go without sleep for days at a time.

"Morning, Sherlock," John greets his flatmate.

Plunged headlong into the realm of the Internet in search for a new riddle, Holmes emits a faint grunt without looking up. John knows all too well about the futility of his endeavours. He goes out of the flat and makes his way downstairs. He knows that Mrs. Hudson is already up – that night her hip gave her particularly hard time, making her get up at five. He knocks on her door.

"John?" she calls his name, surprised, muffling up in a shawl. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. Yes, everything's fine. Can I borrow something? A few eggs and some flour?"

Her eyebrows raised in confusion, she gives John a long look and then smiles, softly:

"Of course, dear. I'll be back in a moment."

Five minutes later John brings his loot back upstairs and immediately goes into the kitchen, Sherlock's inquisitive eyes following him intently. Pulling a milk box out of the fridge and getting a bottle of oil off the shelf, John puts a frying pan onto the burner.

Today pancakes are just pure delight: golden brown, even and, most importantly, successful at the very first try. A deliciously tasty odour pervades the air, and John is not at all amazed to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. The detective casts an inspecting look around the kitchen and lingers on John, who holds a spatula between his fingers.

"Pancakes require fifteen minutes longer than sandwiches. You're going to be late for work."

"Oh, don't worry about work," John waves him off. Carefully, he uses the spatula to lift up a pancake and skillfully flips it over onto the raw side. "I'm off duty today. Sarah gave me a day off."

Sherlock is still on the threshold, observing him with close attention. There's a slight amusement in his eyes – John has never shown any proclivity towards cooking before. The list of the dishes John was usually able to perform used to include omelets, macaroni, and stewed beans – the necessary minimum for a bachelor. Now that he had a tremendous amount of additional time which needed to be spent in a reasonably useful manner, working on his cooking skills seemed like a good idea. Getting Angelo to teach him to cook something more complex than an omelet turned out to be surprisingly easy; it took John only a hint at Sherlock's fine brains whichrequire healthy and tasty food.

"Have you found anything interesting?" asks John.

"The scent distracted me," answers Sherlock, almost accusingly.

Turning towards the cooker, John hides a soft smile. "Well, since you're here anyway, why don't you have breakfast with me? Eat some while they're warm."

Sherlock maintains a meaningful silence, and John adds, pouring another portion of batter onto the frying pan, "Could you clean up the table a bit?"

No one should underestimate the power of my pancakes, thinks John a few minutes later, not without content. He and Sherlock are at the table opposite each other, wolfing down pancakes as though they might never get to eat again. Next to Sherlock's right elbow sit a set of titration pipes, accompanied by beakers and flasks milling about in tight quarters, but the detective has cleared almost half of the table, making some space for a small bowl of cherry jam to be squeezed in the midst. Perhaps, were it not the bloody 4th of December all over again, that day could've merited a special mark on the calendar and consequent annual festivities.

As soon as they are finished with pancakes and half way through the tea, John catches Sherlock's observant gaze.

"What? Is there something on my face?" asks John, licking the rest of butter and jam off his lips.

"No. It's just that you have never shown any cooking talents before," he says, the tone of his voice nearly resentful as if John committed a state crime having kept this fact from him.

Collecting the dirty plates off the table, John shrugs it away with an evasive: "Just thought about introducing a few adjustments to our usual menu."

Sherlock gives him another close look before retiring back into the living room.

# # #

After washing the dishes John comes back to his room and makes the bed. Changing the bedsheet, he thinks absent-mindedly that army habits gradually fall out of use – earlier he didn't let himself leave a mess if not in case of emergency. To jump out of bed, dress at a lightning-like speed, neatly make the bed – all of it used to be a routine habit during a few years of his military service. Life in peace changed it rather quickly, although the first two in the list would come in handy every now and then; especially when, swept with the ardour for a new investigation, Sherlock could burst into his bedroom at any time of night and drag him along to a crime scene. There's no time for making the bed on such occasions. Besides, when he comes back home, all but frostbitten and exhausted, the unfolded bed looks much more inviting.

Smoothing over the creases, John pulls clean underwear out of the drawer and makes for the bathroom. Lathering his shoulders, he catches himself at an interesting thought. During his morning shower, relaxing and refreshing at the same time, he usually thinks over his plans for the day and further on – for tomorrow, for the week, sometimes for the whole month. To buy milk (the one that's in the fridge would suffice only for a single cup of coffee), to do laundry (the clothes basket is full to the brink), to invite Sarah on a movie date, to call Harry, to buy Christmas presents. Right now he just goes through those one hundred and thirty days in order to spend the next one at least a tiny bit differently; otherwise the monotony is sure to bore him out of his mind.

To be perfectly honest, John sometimes doubts if he is not mentally deranged in the first place. He could be lying in a lunatic institution right now, loaded with chemicals and fully immersed into his consciousness, but such reflections always give him depressive moods and John prefers to not place himself at the core of the problem and thinks that it must be the time loop after all, which, albeit incredible, engulfed the entire world around him.

Turning off the water, he rubs his body with a coarse towel, his movements fast and sharp, his skin going red, and comes up to a mirror to shave and then brush his teeth.

After his initial shock of the recurring day was over, John tried to find positive sides to his situation. For instance, he could get to know Sarah better – her habits and dreams, her past – in order to set things right in their relationship.

He invites her out to restaurants and cafes, he takes her shopping, or they watch television together.

At first, all is going well. Sarah is predictably astonished when he brings her favourite lilies, when he laughs at funny moments of her favourite comedy; she kisses him, grateful for the romantic dinner with candles she always dreamt of. But the further it goes, the more boring it gets.

Sarah is a nice girl. She's smart, understanding, and pretty – a dreamboat for any man. For an ordinary man who is willing to create a family, to have a respectable job, to spend quiet evenings sitting on a sofa. It's not enough for John.

Mycroft was right that time when they first met – John's pursuing the war. Not the one where his friends get killed and where he has to constantly dodge the bullets and fulfill sometimes utterly inane orders, but rather the one where his body is flooded with adrenaline, where risk makes a life worth something, where the anticipation of victory truly curdles the blood in his veins. It's the war with the criminal world which Sherlock opened in front of him and which doesn't stand any competition with a quiet comfortable family evening in. John doesn't mind quietness and tranquility, but he doesn't mind the danger even more.

Sarah is as predictable as the multiplication table, and John spends less and less time with her until their communication boils down to John's calling in sick for work in the morning. Sarah doesn't know yet that her relationship with John reached its logical conclusion. They don't say for nothing that routine kills love. His eagerness to mend the situation, the everyday merry-go-round, in its almost literal sense, ruined his feelings for Sarah.

Well, maybe it just wasn't in the cards. It would've been much harder, had Sarah suffered from their break-up. John is sure she hasn't had enough time to full-out fall in love with him in order to be too upset about it. At least, the thought helps him out of the throes of guilty conscience.

His hair still wet, John steps out of the bathroom and puts on a pair of black trousers along with one of his few decent shirts, dark blue and in barely noticeable stripes. At the place where he's going to spend the evening, his usual jumper and jeans would be slightly inappropriate.

All dressed up for the cause, John goes downstairs. After being thoroughly disappointed in the Internet, Sherlock slumps on the sofa in front of the turned-on television, his stare completely blank. There's an interview with Hilary Mantel, an author of many bestsellers, which seems boring even to John's standards. Sherlock's attention is momentarily snapped to his flatmate's appearance.

"You're going out on a date," he states matter-of-factly, having estimated John's outfit.

"Nothing of the kind," answers John, a bit absently, rummaging in the pile of books and magazines on the coffee table, looking for Sherlock's iPhone.

Half an hour in his absence the detective is going to send him an urgent text through the mobile website asking to come home immediately. When at the first time John, preoccupied, rushed back home thinking Sherlock needed his assistance with a new case, it turned out that Sherlock simply needed his iPhone, which was lying on the table two steps away from the sofa. In response to John's indignation he lied through his teeth about the telephone number for the laboratory with which he required immediate communication. Now John knows all too well that all numbers from his contact list Sherlock learnt by heart long ago, and the mentioned immediate communication turned out to be an absolutely disgusting experiment.

"Oh, here it is," mutters John, fishing the iPhone out of the incredible mess and approaching Sherlock, "There."

Sherlock ignores his outstretched hand.

"Poor Sarah," he drawls in a falsely compassionate voice instead. "Does she know you're going out with someone else? Who with, by the way?"

"It's not a date." John places the telephone on the floor right next to the sofa and heads for the door.

"You're thoroughly shaved; you wear a shirt instead of a jumper, and it matches your eyes; you didn't use the eau de Cologne Sarah gave you as a present. Taking into account the fact she's working today and you suddenly asked for a day off, there's only one unequivocal inference."

"Wasn't it you who complained about the scent of my eau de Cologne?" asks John, giving a half-hearted shrug while putting on his shoes. "And again, I'm not going on a date."

"Where are you going then?" asks Sherlock, seemingly irritated. If John didn't know Sherlock was just annoyed at being wrong in his conclusions, he would've presumed his flatmate was jealous.

Smiling involuntarily at the thought, John wraps his wool scarf around the neck. The temperature is almost below zero outside, and there's a strong wind.

"On business," says John, simply. "You don't always inform me where you're going, do you, now? I reckon I'm entitled to a little secret of my own."

"I'm going to find out eventually, anyway," notices Sherlock, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I'm sure you are," John agrees. Zipping up his jacket, he grabs hold of the umbrella and turns to his friend. "If you're still planning on experiments with potassium nitrate, for God's sake, do it at Bart's. I'm not particularly happy about airing out the rooms afterwards – it's cold enough."

And just like that, clicking the door shut without saying another word, John is already on his way.

TBC