Okay, here we go. This is the penultimate chapter. It's slightly longer than usual, so I hope it makes up for the waiting. Enjoy!


Sherlock makes a step forward. The air immediately starts to feel leaden and thick.

"And you never experienced the temptation to ascertain just how potent this endless day reality of yours is?" inquires Sherlock, his voice deep. "You've never wondered what would happen if you take it to the end?"

John swallows.

"You mean suicide?" he asks very quietly.

Chapter 4

"Yes, John. Have you ever considered suicide as a means of solving your problem?"

Sherlock's stance radiates such tension it compels John to shrink back, pressing against the cold door of the fridge. His intimidating posture sends a chill down John's spine, and he can't recall ever seeing his friend like that. The detective's angular features bear a resemblance to a bird of prey, his light eyes pinning John to the spot like a needle piercing through a butterfly. The tautness of his face and the accurate enunciation of the question he delivers make it suddenly frighteningly clear why Sergeant Donovan still thinks it prudent to warn everyone about "that freak". Had he not known Sherlock well enough, it would be quite an opportune moment to presume he carries a threat. Instead, John lifts his chin up and, holding Sherlock's odd, laser-like gaze, responds:

"I've had my share of bad days even before this—"He makes an intricate, noncommittal gesture with his hand, fishing for a proper phrasing, "—devilry. It was especially hard after Afghanistan. It's a common problem among former soldiers who come back from hot spots. We've had to endure a lot of things, and life often seemed to have no meaning; it seemed easier to just end it off than continue this sort of existence. Most of us have probably thought about suicide as a means of solving all problems at a blow. I wasn't an exception." Sherlock lets out a sharp breath, and John hurries to add: "But, Sherlock, I'm not just a soldier, I'm a doctor. My duty is to help, not to kill, even if it is my life at question. Suicide is an easy way out, and I'm not a coward."

"I know."

"I've seen things many have never even dreamt of, and I'm strong enough. Who knows, maybe my death will put a stop to this mishap and there will ensue the 5th of December tomorrow at last. Or it won't and it'll be the same day yet again. Or I'll be dead for real. But I'm not going to take that risk in order to just check it out. Death is the only thing I won't be able to fix. I'm going to sort it out somehow. Hopefully."

Another minute passes in suspense as Sherlock stares out a hole in him, calculating something in his mind, then all of a sudden he blinks and comes back to his usual self.

"I'm glad you understand that," he says, nodding, then turns away and vacates the kitchen.

'Well, what the hell just happened?' thinks John, sagging against the fridge, a puzzled expression stuck to his face.

That was the first time Sherlock initiated this kind of talk and in such a bizarre fashion. This day is supposed to run according to a completely different scenario – starting with the moment when Sherlock has showed up in Scotland Yard. It would sometimes go on with John telling him about his predicament at home in Baker Street, or at Bart's where they would usually verify his predictions. Sherlock conjures up theories and fires questions while John answers them painstakingly one by one, and it all has long since become quite a routine pastime to engage into. But today Sherlock has gone off the beaten path by validating the veracity of John's story on his own, thereby breaking the rut.

Straightening, John flips on the electric kettle, extracts a few variously-coloured mugs out of the cupboard and infuses tea with milk as soon as the water successfully boils up to a necessary degree. After clearing the tray off Sherlock's laboratory flasks, he stations the mugs on it instead and heads for the living room. Sherlock is sprawled out on the couch, facing the back of it, his bare feet hanging slightly in mid-air. The room has a winter chill to it, a blazing fire notwithstanding, and how Sherlock manages not to freeze is an unfathomable mystery to John.

"I made tea," he announces, gingerly placing the tray on the coffee table, royally encumbered with all kinds of newspapers and tabloid rags; Sherlock has skimmed over them in the morning while John was away.

The detective harrumphs, twitching his shoulder.

"It'll get cold," John points out. Silence. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, John perches on the edge of the couch next to Sherlock's feet. This, at length, gets a reaction out of him. Sherlock tucks his legs to himself, turning a befuddled look in John's direction. John shifts, sitting himself more comfortably, slumping against the back of the couch.

"What is it?" he asks, schooling his face into the mask of complete innocence.

"You are sitting next to me," Sherlock frowns, stating the obvious.

"Yes. So?" John reaches to take his mug off the tray.

"You've never done that before."

It's true, he hasn't. Sherlock's couch is considered an inviolable property. Any encroaching upon the space is allowable only to John and only if Sherlock settles in a chair or hangs around in the kitchen. Usually John respects this arrangement, given that Sherlock's brains work more nimbly and fruitfully if no one intrudes into his personal space. But right now John needs Sherlock to quit posing as a sociopathic detective. And for that to happen John has to pluck him out of his comfort zone.

"You just don't remember," John lies skillfully. "You mind?"

Sherlock's face is a mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

"No," he answers slowly. "No, I don't mind."

John snorts, taking a small sip of his tea.

"Alright then. Would you like to explain what just happened in the kitchen? Sherlock?"

"We talked. I was asking, you were answering."

"You were odd. Were you that much interested whether I could off myself or not just to solve the puzzle of the repeating day?"

"No!" Sherlock glances up, immediately. He sits upright, pulling his knees closer to his chest, and stares at John intently, nearly mesmerising and not breaking the eye contact. "No. On the contrary. I'd like to have your promise that you're not going to do that. Ever."

It disconcerts John even more.

"Okay. Well, I already told you I'm not going to."

"I want you to promise me."

"Alright. Only if you explain why you're making such a fuss out of it."

His eyebrows knitted in a gloomy frown, Sherlock looks at him, sulking, but then deigns to elaborate:

"You said that you were stuck in one day. Every morning, previous activities notwithstanding, you come back to where it starts," he summarises as John nods along, "But simultaneously you don't wish to live it the exact way you lived the other one."

"I've come to fully realise the true meaning of the word boredom," admits John. "When you begin shooting at the walls if nothing new happens at least for a week, well, try to imagine what it's like when the same thing expands to a couple of months. Of course, I'm trying to make every day a little bit different from the other. Maybe one day I'll find a way to fix it."

"Logical," agrees Sherlock. "But what if the problem is not with the surrounding world, but rather with yourself? Suppose every actions of yours doesn't come without a trace, that every consequence, every ramification – save for yourself – transfer to another day?"

John smiles.

"I'm not so important as to be the first cause of this universal glitch."

"You're missing the point, John," says Sherlock, flapping a hand. "Suppose I am right, and then we have an endless amount of possibilities, where, for instance, I didn't go for you to Scotland Yard, or where you didn't bring me a cup of tea," he gesticulates towards the coffee table.

"You mean the theory of parallel universes?" John suddenly understands what he was getting at.

"What is that?"

John looks at him for a second, perplexed.

"I forgot who I was talking to."

"What do you mean, you forgot?" Sherlock asks, seemingly displeased.

"I mean I forgot that this sphere of knowledge hardly occupies any room on your hard drive," John corrects himself. "It's from science fiction, an unproved theory. The gist of it is that every time a person makes a choice – to do a certain thing or not to do – the universe bifurcates in two different ones, one where it did happen and one where it did not. It's an endless equation, an infinite number of universes."

"Exactly!" exclaims Sherlock. He shifts to sit more comfortably, extending his legs, his feet brushing lightly John's thigh. "I didn't know someone even researched such a thing – they clearly had nothing better to do."

John gives him another smile.

"It's called imagination, Sherlock. But I don't understand why the sudden talk about the parallel universes. No one is capable of checking this theory anyway. Even me."

Sherlock furrows again.

"Let's suppose it is true. What happens in that version of the universe where you kill yourself on the 4th of December?" he asks, his features drawn into a glum expression.

John can almost hear the unspoken "And where I'm left alone?"

John's heart skips a beat. Sherlock never displays his feelings; maybe he never knew how, maybe he tried to forget, but it is in those rare moments when he does choose to express his affection and lets his guard down that John realises living with him is worth it and he can very well reconcile with Sherlock's whims and antics.

"Alright. I promise," he says at last.

Sherlock's lip curves into a slight smile.

Silence hangs in the air for a few minutes as John drains his tea while Sherlock is deep in thoughts and musings. His previous ruminations have led him to quite eccentric inferences, and John's curiosity willingly falls prey:

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Blinking, Sherlock looks up at him. His eyes light up with a playful sparkle.

"Is it that much that you value my genius, John?" he inquires in mock offense.

John laughs.

"God forbid! They are priceless – no doubt about that."

"Exactly. Don't forget about it."

"As if," John sniggers. "Still, what were thinking about?"

"Boredom."

"Could've figured that out myself," mutters John under his breath. "Well, turn on the TV. There is—" he casts a quick glance at his wrist watch, "In ten minutes there is a programme about pheromone influence on the human organism. You mentioned earlier that it's instructive enough to write a fact or two on your hard drive."

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise.

"Thanks for the advice. Although, by thinking about boredom I meant you, above all."

"Me?" repeats John.

"You said that this day rewinds itself over and over again – for months in a row."

"It's been one hundred thirty days so far," John confirms, a morose note ringing in his voice.

Sherlock nods.

"And you've had all that time, undoubtedly, to memorise the principal, keystone moments of this day – who says what and who does what. Naturally, you let me verify the precision of your story by myself, having predicted what was going to happen with me at Bart's. It verges on the impossible to baffle you with anything – since you've seen it all, and on numerous occasions. You're bored. You divert yourself with going to the lectures and exhibitions – and those are not the kind of places you spend your spare time at on the usual basis. Sarah grew to be so unbearably tedious you don't even wish to see her, while earlier you precipitated to her as soon as a free evening loomed ahead of you."

John asks, suspicious: "Where is this going?"

"I suppose, even my actions you can list out minute by minute, can't you? You've demonstrated it today eloquently enough. Yet even though you said that you get bored with me as well, I haven't noticed you being bored."

'Noticed?' thinks John. 'I don't shoot at the walls and neither do I try to blow up our kitchen when Lestrade has nothing for us to investigate. What's there to notice?'

Out loud, he says: "It's because today you were different. You've showed up at Scotland Yard, you started talking about suicide, right now you're thinking up things I haven't…"

"I wouldn't have come for you, had it not been for your ciphered message."

"I just wanted to entertain you for a moment, Sherlock. I honestly don't understand where you're going with this," John admits, sounding a little upset.

"How many of those days you stayed with me, John? Undoubtedly, enough for you to remember what I do or say. Yet today you've quite easily resigned to the prospect of telling me about this phenomenon of yours all over again. Hence, I can draw only one conclusion – you haven't talked to me in such a long time that even this didn't seem too boring to you. When was the last time you explained anything to me?"

John's forehead is creased as he counts the days, pensively.

"I don't know for sure. Three weeks? Maybe a bit more."

"Three weeks?" Sherlock repeats. "I see."

He wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself, turns away from John facing the back of the couch, and draws his knees to his chest again.

"Sherlock?" John calls him, tentatively. No response. "What's wrong?"

The detective twitches his shoulder.

"Nothing." He remains silent for a second till he decides to clarify: "It's nothing. My flatmate has just been ignoring me for nearly a month."

Flabbergasted, John stares at him, his mouth agape.

"Come on, now. Are you actually upset with me?"

"Nonsense," says Sherlock, his voice crestfallen. "What's there to be upset about?"

"I can't believe it. You're upset," John repeats, still taken aback. "You're such a child, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous."

Silence. John can't stop thinking that Sherlock's behaviour is exceptionally weird today. What's with all the miff? And for such a trifle. Is it not for Sherlock that he goes to the lectures and learnt to cook decent food? Is it not for Sherlock that he reads manuals on chemistry, criminalistics and God knows what else in the evening? Taking a deep sigh, John gets up on his feet. If Sherlock wants to be upset, suit himself, John won't come in the way. He is just about to leave the living room as the detective's small voice reaches him from behind:

"John."

John lingers in the doorway, turning back. Maybe Sherlock finally saw the absurdity of his ways.

"What?"

"Get me the remote."

As if. Pigs might fly sooner.

"Get it yourself," John replies, his tone sharp, and goes upstairs to his room.

While he disrobes to change into his home clothes, Sherlock's behaviour doesn't leave his mind. It's not that earlier Sherlock was easy to handle, no, he still is the most difficult and contradictory human being John has ever encountered. But never before did Sherlock behave in such a peculiar fashion. Who would've thought it. He was upset with John for not spending enough time with him! What are they, kindergarteners? On the other hand, John would've lied, if he'd said that he didn't experience a slight satisfaction from the fact; no one else's attention is worth to Sherlock as much as John's. What has he ever done to deserve it?

Rolling the sleeves of his warm, furry jumper up to his elbows, John shuffles his way back downstairs. Sherlock's watching the TV, ignoring him assiduously, and John, having picked up the tray with an untouched mug of now cold tea, heads for the kitchen. Without much haste, he lays the comestibles out on the table, cuts the chicken in chubby pieces, puts a frying pan onto the stove, then washes the carrots, peels off onions, and prepares peas. Angelo has taught him very simple, but very delicious recipes: turns out, the chicken with tin canned peas as a garnish – is mind-blowingly fantastic. He hears television buzzings reaching him from the living room and sometimes recites out loud the phrases he has memorised by now.

As the stove starts filling the kitchen with the mouth-watering aroma, his mobile rings. John knows it's Sarah. She's worried about his health and always checks on him, asking about his well-being. Nice, sweet Sarah. John calms her down, promising to be right on duty tomorrow, and hangs up. The hubbub of the television programme coming from the living room slightly increases to its previous level, and John smiles, realising that Sherlock has clicked the volume down to listen up to him talking with Sarah.

In half an hour the kitchen is ready, the dishes are washed, and tea is infused again.

"Sherlock," John calls out. "Are you going to have dinner?"

A few minutes tick by, and as John is just about to resign to the detective's decision to give him a cold shoulder for the rest of the evening when Sherlock appears in the doorway.

"I thought you were angry with me," he says with caution.

John shrugs.

"Why would I be? You sometimes ignore me too, so I don't see anything strange about it. Although, it honestly flatters me that you decided to get upset about me not spending with you enough time. Which is not true, by the way. Dinner?"

Sherlock gives him a long, intent stare, then sits at the table. A beaming smile spreads over John's face as he thinks that the conflict is placated without any blood shedding, and the peace is restored.

# # #

The evening for the tenants of 221B Baker Street passes in a calm and rather pacific stillness. After dinner Sherlock stays at home; he sprawls out on the couch gluing himself to his computer, and John suddenly realises that every time he tells Sherlock about the repetitive day, Sherlock always keeps him company, although in other times he prefers to experiment with corpses in the morgue or spends time in his chemical laboratory at Bart's. Now John begins to grasp the reason behind it; Sherlock is afraid of John growing bored of him just like he did of Sarah.

"You mind if I borrow one of your books?" John asks. Sherlock looks up at him, a curious expression on his face, and John feels embarrassed and clarifies: "I'm still self-perfecting."

"I think you're already perfect. But, sure, if you must, go ahead."

It embarrasses John even more, but Sherlock rapidly turns away, burying his eyes into the monitor again. After standing in perplexed silence for a few seconds John decides to not pay much mind to the detective's odd remark. He pulls an encyclopaedia of venomous plants out of the bookcase adjacent to the fireplace, unrolls the woolen plaid and settles in the chair. Stealthily, by the corner of his eye, he notices Sherlock's posture relax, his bare feet, crossed in the ankles, start swinging back and forth while he types away on the keyboard. Smiling to himself, John finds a page he has stopped at days before and plunges into the thickets of alkaloid-containing plants and their effects on human body.

Beyond all doubt, John would rather spend the evening somewhat differently, other than sitting by the fire reading a book and answering Sherlock's accidental questions. But there's no sense in updating his blog, and there's nothing to watch on television since more or less interesting programmes were all learnt by heart by now, and the majority of movies of earlier times he has missed out on because of his military service and later injury has been also already seen. There were times John spent all day drinking himself to oblivion at the pub on the other side of the street, but as soon as he has resigned to the dejection that befell him from the inability and helplessness of ever changing anything, now John usually deters from going out of the warm house and under the dank downpour for a dubious pleasure of blissful intoxication. His relationship with Sarah has gone up in flames, so John just prefers to stay in.

The only satisfactory outcome of the whole disaster is reading; thankfully, Sherlock has quite an impressive collection of books. Observing his flatmate John found out what kind of knowledge occupies his 'hard drive': nothing on literature, philosophy and show-business; botany, biology, geology, physics or history – only partially; however, anatomy, chemistry, geography, jurisprudence, criminalistics and criminology are studied to the extraordinary depths. He has a vast phalanx of books and manuals pertaining to the last categories. One by one, John peruses them, gradually familiarising himself with the nuts and bolts of various disciplines. He has no delusions about his mental faculties – he is never going to reach the brilliant intellectual heights of his friend. Sherlock is an unparalleled genius; even specialists sometimes fail to contend with the sharpness of his mind and make fools of themselves next to him. Still, John would like to be someone better than an errand boy, a housekeeper and, at times, a bodyguard.

"You have no need for organic chemistry right now. Take ballistics instead," Sherlock speaks up, out of the blue. "Besides, with your track record it would be easier and faster to grasp."

"Yes, you're right," John replies, nodding pensively. Then he almost jumps in his chair, turning abruptly to face Sherlock, "Wait, how did you know what I was thinking?"

Sherlock beams with contented smugness. He gets up from the couch, crosses the living room and settles in the chair opposite John's, tucking his legs under himself.

"I've been watching you for the last five minutes – from the moment you sighed and closed the volume on poisons." Sherlock gesticulates to the manual lying shut in John's lap. "After that, you looked at the bookcase, apparently deciding to read something else. The upper shelve contains books on organic chemistry, the lower one - on criminalistics. You glanced twice up and down, choosing the material, and finally stopped at criminalistics. As you very well see, to infer from it the purported train of your thoughts wasn't that much a leap."

"Yes, but how did you know I was thinking about ballistics in particular? You have a lot of books on other similar subjects."

"The title of the ballistics manual is best visible from the spot where you sit – its gilt binder reflects the fire flames. Besides, you started to rub your shoulder in the place you were injured. The reaction was automatic as soon as you thought of the weaponry. Putting two and two together, I reached the reasonable conclusion which you've just proved right with your answer."

"Amazing!" John looks at Sherlock in pure wonderment. "When you explain it, it does seem easy, but sounds like you're practically reading my mind."

"It's not difficult. With a lot of practice everyone can do it," the detective notes.

"I don't know. I think it'll take time," John shakes his hand, uncertainly. "I'm afraid I'll grow old before mastering this skill."

"Nonsense," Sherlock snorts. "I have confidence in you. Let's try to figure out what I am thinking right now."

"Hm," John tilts his head to one side, acquiring a spitting resemblance to a curious bird, watching Sherlock with close attention. Sherlock looks back at him, with keen intent, and John smiles a slightly embarrassed smile. "Well, I suppose you're thinking about me. You are looking at me," he begins, the tone of his voice unsure.

"Perfect. What else?"

"Maybe… Maybe it's connected with the repeated day? It's that what most intrigues you, right?"

"Very well. What else?"

"Well… maybe you wanted to know what I've been doing this whole time?" John suggests at a guess. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders in an indefinite gesture while John ponders a moment on what else could be of interest to the detective at that minute until it hits him: "Wait, does it even work if a person knows that someone's trying to figure out what he is thinking?"

"Of course not."

"Sherlock!" John exclaims, his voice indignant. "Don't play tricks on me."

Sherlock offers him a smile.

"But you've got it, haven't you? Although, I can say that you were moving in the correct direction. I was hoping to find something out, indeed."

Heaving a moderately irritated sigh, John soon mollifies; he can't honestly stay angry with Sherlock for a long time.

"Alright. What was it you wanted to know?"

"Which steps have you taken in order to fix the continuing day?"

Collecting his thoughts, John explains his idea of having to do something that will eventually trigger the mechanism and fix the endless rigmarole of the same day. He talks some more about the absence of catastrophes, major crashed, or terrible murders and about his self-improvement. He lists out what he has been doing all that time.

"Well, everything I could do – I've already tried," he sums up at last, a despondent note in his voice. "I'm afraid I have to just accept it and flow with the tide."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, mulling it over.

"I suppose I've given you some advice before as to what you could do about it?"

"Of course," John nods. To tell the truth, he's held out a lot of hope on Sherlock. If not a genius, who else could ever help him get through this misfortune? Alas, even Sherlock's ideas haven't yielded any fruits in the fight against the glitch in the universe. "It didn't work." John shifts his gaze from the detective's thoughtful face to the flame, sizzling in a peaceful dance in the fireplace, and fetches a sigh.

Sherlock remains silent for some time.

"Maybe you've taken the wrong turn from the very beginning," he says, at length.

"How do you mean?"

"You've done everything in your power to fix it, right? Something reasonable, something logical that would be expected from you. You presume that a right deed is going to interrupt the rewind. But what if it's this precise reasoning that is false? What if you try the exact opposite?"

John frowns.

"Are you suggesting I should kill someone rather than save?" he inquires, skeptically.

"I don't think such strict measures are needed. Just do something no one expects you to."

"It all sounds very complicated," says John, exasperated by now. "I don't get it what you're hinting at."

Sherlock springs to his feet and extends a hand to John.

"Get up," he commands.

"Why?" John asks, already accepting Sherlock's hand and standing upright. "Alright. What is it you've come up with this time? What should I do that no one expects of me?"

"I better show you." Sherlock takes a step forward, and John is about to recoil as he bumps into the back of the chair, and there's nowhere to retreat. "For instance, this."

That saying, Sherlock tilts his head to one side and kisses him.

TBC


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