This is loosely based off the short story "The Adventure of the Other Detective" by Bradley H. Sinor (found in a collection of SH short stories) in which Watson steps into an alternate London where Holmes is the new Moriarty and Moriarty is the new Holmes. But I can assure you, this in onlybasedoff that idea. I... let's just say, the story premise was awesome (minus the Moriarty part) but the execution was disagreeable to me. Anyway, here's my shot in the dark.
I had been at the club all night, again, in attempts to forget what was currently happening at 221B Baker Street. I hold no doubt that Holmes was now sitting in an induced state, draped over the settee, maybe over the chair or perhaps not even that far. Perhaps he didn't even care enough as to weather he was collapsed on the floor or the furniture. Either way, the man in those rooms was not the man I liked to call my companion. No, this was a man of rash behavior set off by the terrible failing of a case which resulted in death, escape, thievery, and the tempers fragile enough to drive flatmates apart. I left with some steam in my step, my companion stubbornly turned the other way, violin screeching in undaunted torture, and a few crass words driven into my back as I slammed the door shut. Three hours ago has since passed, and I'd been drowning my frustrations with cheap beer and utilizing every shilling of my month's share of rent on it. That would teach Holmes.
I blushed at my unadulterated shame in placing all the blame on my friend. Besides, I knew that what he was doing that moment was an entirely darker mode of sulking, one which I scarcely tried to think about. I sighed, tipping back the last frothy sip of beer and wiping my mouth over my sleeves. It was time to go home, I decided, and to make amends with the friend who was as equally dismal as myself.
I stumbled out of the establishment onto the nearly deserted streets. The wind was beating angrily at my shivering form as I made my way back home, disoriented beyond comprehension. My head hurt, my vision was terribly blurred and my steps as feeble as a baby lamb's. I had hardly made it round one block before feeling the sour taste of vomit rising up my throat. Oh no, I thought, not here... just got to make it back...Small apparitions formed in the center of my vision as tiny green and black dots swarmed before my eyes. The terrible feeling of the stomach contracting and the bitter taste at the back of my tongue told me that I would not get my wish. I tripped over a crate which jumped out at me from the shadows and fell to my knees, loosing all the alcohol I'd just spent my entire month's budget on. Coughing, I felt my eyes tearing at the acidic liquid I just fell face-first into. Oh God, I felt to ill and beaten, wanting nothing more than to be knocked out where I lay; knowing already that I had no hopes of making it to Baker Street. All I could do was hope a constable would find me before morning and spare me the humiliation, or perhaps Holmes would sense something amiss and come search for me. If he had forgiven me, anyway. My last thoughts were of the unbearable lightheadedness I felt as my vision begin to white out. And then the world was gone.
My mind was conscious before my eyes could open, and for what seemed like hours I felt nothing but the chill which made my clothes cling to my body and the acrid scents of last nights blunders burning my nostrils. Scant cries of anguish and contempt rattled in my ears as the recollection of our silly quibble ran through my tired mind. And then I remembered the stupor I fell into; all drinking and self-loathing only adding to the amounting guilt. There were pains in my spine that were new to me, and a hazy film of milky light that clouded my vision. Dear God, what had I done to myself? Or worse yet... what had happened to me while I was unconscious?
I was finally able to force my eyes open and prop myself up. It took a few moments for my vision to clear, and I found that I remained in the same ally in which I had initially fallen. A few people walked by, not giving my haggard form any mind as they went about their business. I grunted as I got my feet beneath me and used the wall as support. I've been drunk before, but never like this. As it was, my footing stabilized in no time at all, and indeed, my entire situation seemed to better itself when the lightheadedness dissipated. Pulling out my pocket watch, I was horrified to see that it was well past nine o'clock in the morning. Six hours I laid in that alley!
Straightening out my clothing as best I could, I topped my hat and quickly exited to hail a cab. Well I was about to, when I remembered that I had spent all my money the night before. I really hadn't thought things through. Ah, well, Baker Street was only a twenty minute walk which I knew would do me some good.
And so I made my way back home, fully prepared to apologize to a friend who was just as eagerly awaiting my return; both of us completely sincere in our words yet neither deserving to hear them.
The door to 221b was never more inviting and so terrifying than it was that morning. I stood for sometime anticipating the defeat before summing up my courage and unlocking the door. My feet were heavy upon the stairs, but I tried to keep them as quiet as I could. Mrs. Hudson rushed past, hardly acknowledging my dismal appearance. She was used to one or the other of us treading home in that sorry state. I opened the unsecured door and quietly stepped in, only to stop cold in my tracks.
The room was... it was spotless! No papers stacked on furniture, the desk actually possessing a flat surface, no odd jars and findings scattered round the room, and, most strange of all, no bullet pocks! Since the day I moved in here, I don't think I've ever seen the furniture as they were meant to be seen! I stared in astonishment at this peculiar sight. Had Holmes had the compulsion to clean the rooms? Well that was unlikely; his habits worked in quite the opposite direction. Perhaps he burned everything out of indignation? Certainly not; the fireplace was way too clean for that possibility. I continued to stare in awe at this strange sight, when I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet running down the stairs of my room.
"Father! Are you home already? I just watched you walk down the street five minutes ago!" A small boy appeared then, jovial in his movements and bursting with energy. I also couldn't help but notice that he was running down from my bedroom. Once he was on the flat, he looked up to see me and stopped dead in his tracks.
I looked at him in confusion, about to ask if his father was a client of Sherlock Holmes or what, when his face flushed and hurriedly turned back up the stairs. I nearly called back to him when a lady stepped in from what was Holmes's room, towel in hand, and forcing a smile.
"Oh, are you here to see Harold? I'm afraid you just missed him." She said.
Again, I could do nothing but stare at the strange woman who had emerged from my friend's room. "Uh, no, I'm... excuse me, but who are you?"
She chuckled and wrung the towel. "I could ask you the same thing, sir. My name's Sophie Ashton, and my husband's a clerk. Do you have business with him?"
"Do you live here?" I asked, ignoring the question.
"I... well yes, my husband and I have lived here for three years. Now, would you please tell me what it is I can do for you? If nothing, then you'll have to excuse me as I've quite a few errands to run before my husband gets back."
I wanted to question her, to find out what the deuce was going on and why she claimed to have lived here for three years, but the tone in her voice warned me against it. I nervously smiled and bowed, stepping out the door. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, ma'am, I... I must have the wrong address," She nodded, and I quickly made my escape.
The sun was blearing in my eyes and the aroused dirt was much to cloudy for such an early hour. The streets looked the same, the people looked the same and the little store at the corner was exactly the same. Mrs. Hudson was the landlady at 221b Baker Street, and yet... it didn't appear is though I were its inhabitant. Was it possible that my mind was still disillusioned by drink? Perhaps the beer had been tainted, or... heavens, I had not a clue. Whatever was going on, it was evident that I didn't live at Baker Street and so it was unlikely that Holmes could be found there either. Not having the spottiest idea of where to start looking, I headed for Pall Mall.
My journey was to be in vein, as life would have it. When entering the queerest place in London, I had inquired for a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The receptionist looked at me with a blank expression, insisting that no man by that name had ever entered through their doors. I decided that that also wasn't right, but given my morning so far, I nodded and turned out. My next stop? I'd say the hospital, to check if I indeed had a job or... by Jove, what was the state of my professional affairs? Swallowing the lump which had formed in my throat, I made my way to the familiar grounds of the hospital, not wholly confident in what I'd find.
The staff was entirely unrecognizable, much to my dismay. There sat a gentleman at the front desk whose great girth was about to bust the buttons on his greatcoat and his lumpy head as scarce of hair as that of a babe's. His stroked an astonishing walrus mustache as he twittled a pencil between his fat fingers, eyes scanning over unidentifiable papers.
"Excuse me," said I, walking up to him. "Might you tell me if a Dr. John Watson works here?"
It looked like he was ignoring me, but eventually he let out a gruff laugh. "John Watson? Well, sir, there's many a John Watson in London. But you say this one is a doctor? On staff here?"
"If he be the correct man I am searching for, then yes."
He regarded me with curiosity in his eyes before promptly swiping a hand over his naked head. "Sorry sir, but no such doctor exist. Least not here, anyhow."
My heart dropped into my stomach. "I see," I replied drily. "Thank you, sir, I must have my directory wrong." He smiled, waving me away. I dare say, I more stumbled away from the desk than walked from it. I sat on one of the benches to wait out the sudden bout of dizziness, when a small, lean fellow walked up to me.
"I couldn't help but overhearing you when you talked to old Thomas there," he remarked. "But I nearly tripped over myself when I heard the subject of your inquiries."
I nodded, brushing off the words. "It's fine, really, nothing-" By Jove, was that Lestrade? Was I really looking at whom I thought it was? My features must have been magnificent, for he looked at me in slight concern.
"Is something the matter?" I stared at the familiar face, but it wasn't he... couldn't be! This was obviously a nurse of the hospital, not the terrier of a man which was Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard! But I composed myself, smiling as best I could.
"I'm sorry, my good fellow, but... what did you overhear?"
"Not all of it, but I did hear you mention John Watson."
"Oh! Do you know him?" I asked.
"Honestly? I wish I could have gotten to know him better! The poor devil died a war hero, if I do say so myself." A chill shot down my spine. I was dead in this world. It was in that moment that it dawned on me that maybe I wasn't John H. Watson at all; perhaps I was someone totally different, new name, new occupation, new friends- or no friends, perhaps even a new career and skills! Well... as for that, I still withheld the knowledge I've always had, but maybe that knowledge has been replaced? Good heavens, I didn't even know if I looked the same! My clothes certainly were mine, as in, Dr. Watson of Baker Street, friend and colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I was positive that I was whom I believed I was. But... still, my clothes weren't phenomenal, and I hadn't seen my face since awakening during these odd happenings. My fingers instantly touched my upper lip. My mustache was still there, at least.
The man who was known to me as Lestrade looked at my gesture with amusement. "Something wrong with your face?" He asked.
"What is your name?"
"My name? It's-"
"Never mind that," I rushed, not wanting to confirm anything. "Tell me, my good sir, what color are my eyes?"
"Uhm... I'd say they were-"
"Forget it." I cut him off again, standing up and heading for the exit.
I was scared. I didn't know what was wrong with me! Was I or was I not Doctor John H. Watson? Where did I live? What did I do? Did my reputation bless or condemn me? Who was I, and where did I fit in this world if the John Watson to everyone else died back in Afghanistan? And if my role were changed, along with Lestrade's and the absence of Mycroft Holmes, then where might Sherlock be; in all meanings of the word? I felt my mind rushing from the surge of unanswerable and undesirable questions. I was a man lost in my own world, or perhaps this was all just a cruel trick of the alcohol in my system. But I'm a doctor, confound it! And also an experience drinker, and I could assure myself most heartedly, that this was not a normal side effect of too much drink; I don't care what passes one's lips, this was not the result. God forbid my drink had been laced with something, but what on earth would be the purpose of that?
Through what compulsions, I do not know, but I found it incredibly difficult not to simply run out in the middle of the street and pull at my hair. I fancy myself a collected fellow, and yet I had convinced myself that it would help extract the information I yearned to understand. But, I know, that I am above that; capable of keeping my countenance and holding it in place until I was at least alone. The only problem with that was that I had no where to go and no money in my pockets to redress that issue. I decided that the sensible thing to do would be to go somewhere that could care for a man who may possibly be mad. I picked up the remains of my dignity and headed for Scotland Yard.
Well surely, the young man at the desk was none other than Stanley Hopkins. I recognized his features instantly, though he did look a bit older. That lead me to wonder upon the date, but then the idea that perhaps his position here was more cumbersome than what it was in my London, and thus he was prematurely aging. I walked up to the desk, not able to do anything else.
"Can I help you?" He asked in a familiar voice.
"Why yes, I seem to have found my self in... a predicament, and I am in need of some information."
He nodded, signaling me to take a seat. "What can I help you with, sir?"
Here is where I hesitated. What could he help me with? "I know this may sound a bit... strange, but... do you know who I am?"
"You've striking features, but I can't say your face is familiar to me. You're not a criminal, I hope?"
"Oh, no!" I cried. "Nothing of the sorts! It's just that I woke up this morning, and... well, things aren't as they should be."
"Well, that's unfortunate," said he, slack jawed and and not wholly committed to helping me. "What should I call you?" I'd like to know the answer to that myself. As though he had read my mind, the bored demeanor quickly transformed into one of peeked interest. "You don't know? Hum! Well, I am a detective, so maybe I can help you with that!"
I had closed my eyes, thanking the heavens for this small bit of relief. "If you'd please."
"Alright, where do you work?"
"I don't know."
"Alright then. Family?"
"None, I don't think."
"I see. How about friends? Associates?"
I smiled. "Well, I know one thing for sure, and that is that I consider myself an intimate companion of Sherlock Holmes."
His knuckles clenched suddenly, eyes sharpening and regarding me with a cold stare. "Really now?"
"Yes."
"And how long have you known mister Sherlock Holmes?"
"I'd say about six years now, though we connected almost immediately."
"Funny," he smiled. "I've also known misterSherlock Holmes for about six years. Maybe even seven?" He was standing behind the desk now, towering over me. "So, a man of no identity, no family and no occupation waltzes into my office and claims to be on intimate terms with one of London's biggest criminal masterminds. Hah! I hardly know what to do first!"
"Criminal mastermind!" I shouted. That was impossible! If there was one thing I knew about my friend Sherlock Holmes, it was that- oh, holy mother of God and all damnation. "Look here, Hopkins!" I held up my hands. "I am not a criminal-"
"I never introduced myself, how did you know my name?"
"Well... it's not difficult to place your face. You've worked at the Yard for four years now, and how you claim to know Holmes for seven-"
"Four years! Why, that's exactly how long I've been here! Holmes has been an interest of mine before I joined, however, I'd love to hear you explain how you knew that. Unless, of course, you're working right along side with him!"
"Be reasonable!" I shouted. "If I were a criminal, why the deuce would I walk directly into your office to turn myself in? It makes no sense!"
"Of course it doesn't! Not unless this was a trap. Is it? Am I to be expecting your master to pay a visit?"
"I can assure you,"
"Sir, you are under arrest for affiliations with a wanted criminal and I will escort you personally to your new haven."
"With what evidence!"
"You confessed!"
"I did no such-" I blacked-out the moment his fist connected with my skull.
