A/N: Another sci-fi rubbish here. (Ta.)

Left this one barely started, long ago. Some other plot forcefully invaded my mind at the time. The OCD streak in me has brought me back to it. So, two updates at once, for it's unfair to repost the same first chapter and make you wait, or post the second and press you to rummage through old material to see where it's coming from. -csf

. 1

Sherlock Holmes has always had a vain streak to his personality. His distant ascetic genius act always cracks slightly under a genuine praise. As if betraying a deep need to connect, barely awake under the complex layers of his persona. A need for recognition; maybe even understanding. To me, that small flair of vanity indicates that no matter the rational man's powers, he is as human as all of us, faltering under the human connection of praise.

And he deserves it – so I don't mind praising him at all.

Unfortunately, his successes with the Yard, and even to some extent my blog detailing our work together, have brought the Baker Street's consulting detective more than new cases by email, post and clients through the front door. It has got Sherlock a lot of notoriety across London, and far beyond.

With all the deserved praise deriving from the new influx of clients, there also came hate mail, and threats. I never foresaw those when I used my blog to praise my friend. I was too innocent in a harsh world.

Of course Sherlock is aware of those threats and takes adequate precautions. It helps when one's brother has a minor position in the government, and commands cctv cameras for fun. So, mostly, Mycroft has become our intelligence agency. An upscale bodyguard without the legwork, if you will.

Throughout the time Sherlock's office has coincided with his home address, Mycroft has been carefully adding new security measures to protect his little brother from intruders, criminals, raging stalking fans, the lot. I rather think he has covered my back quite a few times as well – don't really know why; I've always refused to play the part of his brother's handler and I've hardly ever been his messenger.

A lot of Sherlock's privacy has been compromised in the effort to keep him safe. Not that the man who is prone to get out of bed and walk around 221B wrapped only in a bed sheet while on a live conference over a case is really bothered. Other things – like a biohazard cleaning crew once being called to wipe down the kitchen, ruining one ongoing rate of decomposition experiment – may have been more upsetting to Sherlock than stalking cctv cameras, real time feed microphones installed on the living room and other such wonders Mycroft's overworked team as come up with.

This time Mycroft may have taken it a step too far.

Sherlock is mildly amused. I'm flabbergasted.

Apparently, years ago, before I met Sherlock Holmes and around the time he moved into 221B Baker Street, Mycroft's top secret lab coat people have harvested some of Sherlock's cells. And – even more unbelievable than having Sherlock consent to people coming so close to him and his cells – they have spent the next years trying to get a clone of Sherlock Holmes. And rapidly ageing that clone too.

I still struggle to believe it and I have the clone standing right in front of me. I'd call it Sherlock Two if it wasn't creeping me out so much to have two Sherlocks in the same living room, interrupted breakfast at the table now completely forgotten.

I can't stop myself from rubbing my eyes. It feels like I'm seeing double even if they're dressed slightly differently. Maybe there is even a slight age gap between them. Sherlock Two has aged till he appears to be Sherlock's age when the sample was harvested. So... early thirties? There's a softer roundness to Sherlock Two's features, and also a stronger feel of despise for idiocy in the room.

He's been giving me plenty of those uppish looks, Sherlock Two. You see, he's never met me. He doesn't quite understand why am I still in the room with the two Holmes brothers, breakfast consisting of boiled egg abandoned in the cup, and coffee going cold. He's hinting at me that I don't belong in this living room, as if I'm one too many in the family reunion. I don't really pay attention to the clone. We all have to make sacrifices. He can either put up with me or vacate my armchair.

Sherlock, the one I've known longer, has been eyeing carefully his replica with interest.

'It will do, Mycroft', he says at last, nevertheless acting flaringly pained, exaggeratedly so.

Both his clone and I frown at once. Sherlock knows of this plan then.

Mycroft is the one that comes to my aid, explaining what is going on, maybe even to aggravate his baby brother who'd much rather keep his doppelgänger's raison d'être under wraps.

'Your younger self will be making public appearances the next few days, Sherlock. He'll be taking your place whenever there is the slightest chance that you face danger from your unidentified enemy. This is a much simpler solution than having my men protecting you at all times, particularly when you go rogue so many of those times. They're wasted chasing you when your enemies do so also, and are getting rather tired of sprinting after you when you try to outrun them', big brother confides with a knowledgeable wink at me. Yeah, Sherlock's strides come from bloody long legs and a thin frame.

'Mycroft...' I start, confused. 'What happens if the clone gets hurt?'

'Sherlock feels the pain' Mycroft deadpans. 'No, not really', he corrects at my shocked expression. 'The clone is not a real person, not in the sense you would describe one, John. He's more of a imprint of reality, a ghost with a corporal manifestation. However, he's made of unstable biological matter that won't last. Inevitably there are flaws that make him short of human. He does not feel pain, he will not learn, he is an idée fixe that cannot be changed for the duration of his activation. That is too say, the clone is a walking talking replica of how Sherlock was when the cells were harvested. Who we are, John, is a strong reality that is imprinted in far more than our souls. It's truly a part of us. From our thoughts, beliefs and vices to the fitness level and vitamins intake, all of who we are that we can quantify or describe is a part of us, of all of us, in our cells. From a brain cell to a muscle cell, from a fingertip to the heart, from an alveoli in our lungs to a strand of hair, who we are is deeply coded in our cell's memory. It's beautifully terrifying that who we are is a part of every tiny elemental building block in us... Think of this, John. As we go around our day, shedding our hair', he looks with some grudge at Sherlock's long raven black curls, 'some more than others, we are leaving behind minute portions of who we are. What stories they could tell us, if only cloning was not such an expensive work – and humanity in general so useless to duplicate.'

This man is so desperate to keep his baby brother alive. The one example of humanity that he seems to truly care about.

'You've long foreseen a future when Sherlock might be needed one day', I notice out loud.

'I've always known enough of my brother's genius to seize the opportunity, John.'

I smile, realising this is a declaration of caring in the Holmes peculiar way. Mycroft purses his lips, displeased of my deductions; he's read them easily in my facial expressions.

'The clone has been briefed and is apt to take Sherlock's place. He will take the dangerous risks for my brother in the next few days. That has been established. If something happens to the clone, Sherlock will be spared, at least... Although Sherlock will moan from having to listen to me. A lot of money and energy have been spent to recreate Sherlock Holmes. A Sherlock so perfect the public will be fooled. Only the three of us know this.'

'And the scientists', I point out, logically.

'They don't count.' Mycroft's tone implies they're locked up somewhere. I frown.

'So how many Sherlocks are there, in some dusty basement, waiting to come to life?'

'None more, John. This is it. The clone was created as an emergency contingency. We have decided to deploy him now.'

I frown, a shiver running down my back. I strive to keep a strong appearance. 'And St Bart's? Why not use the clone against Moriarty?'

The older Holmes is not surprised by my question. As if he had anticipated it. 'Not ready yet, alas. Scientists are not magicians', Mycroft smiles a dead smile. 'Not even mine ones.'

'And now, what happens after the danger is over?'

We all glance at the fake Sherlock, seating in my armchair, looking (appropriately) bored.

'He... disintegrates, for the lack of a better expression, after 3 days. You will notice his outward appearance starts to fade and falter, leading up to his expiration date, John. It's really quite wondrous. So, Sherlock', he addresses his brother, 'use him wisely.' Mycroft wiggles his eyebrows, both comically and eerily in a way only he knows how.

'Naturally', Sherlock dismisses vaguely.

Mycroft sends me a pained overly suffering look and dismisses himself from 221B.

After big brother leaves, I'm still stunned to be in a room with two Sherlocks. The clone will stay in Baker Street, waiting for directives. This can get tricky. I need to make sure I always know which Sherlock I'm addressing. My good friend, or the one who still doesn't know me.

With a deep breath and a puzzled smile, I get up and do what I should have long ago. I walk over to the second Sherlock and take out a hand to shake his.

'Hi, I'm John.'

The man looks at me with a most unappreciative manner and assures me: 'Yes, retired soldier, currently a doctor at A&E – no, wait, not even that, NHS care. Yes, I can see that, it's as plain as daylight. I hardly require introductions, John, and I'm not one for small talk. I don't believe you have much going on that I may require your services for, so why don't we save time by skipping the social niceties? I'm not pleased to meet you, I'm not interested in small talk, I can easily deduce all I need from you just by looking. Why would I want to talk to you?'

I frown, upset. 'You may need my phone?' I return coldly. This is not the Sherlock I met at Bart's upon returning to London. This is a more detached, socially isolated, genius.

'There's the landline', he points out, never knowing I'm alluding to the first time I met the real Sherlock Holmes.

'You prefer to text.'

For once he looks taken aback. 'Yes, I do. How do you know that?'

'Sherlock is my best friend', I state simply, honestly.

He twists his face in a derogative smile that begs for complicity, then slowly his amusement crumbles. 'Really?' he sounds shocked. I'm taking prejudice, mate.

The real Sherlock has allowed the interaction go on for this long, but now he intervenes, a bit jittery: 'John is too honest to joke about these things, Duplicate.'

The clones frowns, annoyed. 'I have a name, you know?' he bites back, rudely.

'Too confusing', Sherlock dismisses, without giving him a second look. 'John, we're setting up a plan.'

I copy his victory smile. It's Sherlock and John against crime. Well... Sherlock, John and Sherlock Two, I guess.

.

TBC