(A/N) Second part of a two-posts-in-one-day update.

Context: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who doesn't know John, an amused and short-tempered John, an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much despite clear evidence otherwise, and a very powerful minor civil servant. -csf

. 2

Mycroft leaves us, at last, to digesting infamous reality of having two Sherlock Holmes in 221B, and I find myself shaking my head in an attempt to brush off my stupor. It still feels inconceivable, a surreal deviation from normal reality, and I face it in honest disbelief.

Tea is in order.

I abandon my half-eaten breakfast, much too shocked to keep an appetite, and go make a cuppa. Well, when I say one...

My best friend has taken refuge in his thought process, as he's sitting on his armchair, vacantly following me around with a lost gaze. I mean, I feel like he is. It's no coincidence his chair is angled before the window, and his pitch dark silhouette contrasts sharply against the pool of light, adding to his mystery and secrecy. But, if I can sense right, he's studying me back, wondering if this time the Holmes brothers have gone too far, if I can deal with the top secret genetic engineering of doppelgänger clones (and cranky ones at it). Perhaps also wondering if we had met at some other point in our lives, would we still have clicked as friends so instantaneously.

There's something to this younger-Sherlock clone. He's colder, fiercely independent, arrogantly detached, full of rationality and despise for the non-geniuses – he hasn't found his heart yet.

My friend – the true Sherlock Holmes – has gone through a lot this past years we've been friends. The cases he solves are no longer mere intellectual challenges, the witnesses are no longer overly emotional reporters of past events, the victims are more than facts and statistics, mastermind criminals can turn out to be boring, and friends can be supportive and need support.

In that St Bart's basement lab, when we first met, Sherlock Holmes saw a very uptight, silent soldier – and he saw potential for a flatmate. I fancy he also saw a mystery in me that day.

This morning, Sherlock Two saw a GP who knew too much of "him" already, leaving him at a disadvantage. The fact that I was trying to be friendly was possibly too much for an introvert detective and he reacted instinctively by pushing me away. The clone might believe he knows all he needs to know about me, for he extensively deduced me at face value, but he doesn't understand the friendship (and associated vulnerability) between a genius and a common man.

I need to be gentle with this clone, and take precautions I wouldn't with his original, if I want to gain his trust. Three days is not a long self-life, but I insist on knowing Sherlock in all his incarnations.

So I'm taking them both nice cups of tea.

Tea always helps.

.

'Well, this is creepiness enough for one morning', I comment out loud. Finishing the tea I suggest: 'Does any of you geniuses actually have a healthy breakfast?'

Immediately they both dismiss the idea, briskly, swirling their jackets as they get up and turn (in the absence of a certain long wool coat – will they share the famous appendage?).

'Not now, John!' my Sherlock growls. His clone second-motions:

'I'm working, John. I never eat while on a case!'

You do nowadays, because I make you.

I roll my eyes at both. I sugar the teas anyway (if I leave them about, they always get drunk no matter what the detective says). As I open the fridge for the milk, though, I find more than I bargained for; some pieces of meat or flesh floating inside the bottle.

'Sherlock!' I protest, angrily.

'Oh, you found my lactobacillus sp experiment, John', Sherlock tells me, unfazed.

'Sherlock...' I warn heavily.

He shrugs and diverts: 'Duplicate, clean up the mess, will you?'

'Me?' his clone protests dramatically. 'I think lactobacilli with liver is a great idea!'

Baker Street's proper genius smirks. Pained, he insists: 'John is adamant, I'm afraid.'

The clone gets upset, lazily. 'He's your assistant', he grunts. 'I mean, our assistant!'

'No, he's definitely mine', Sherlock states assuredly. 'You haven't earned him yet, Duplicate. Kindly remove the liver samples from the milk.'

'Sherlock...' I intervene.

'Throw it all away, I mean', Sherlock corrects carefully. Then, lighter, he adds to me: 'Can I keep it for a couple of hours more?'

'Yes', I nod. Of course. 'Keep it out of the fridge, will you?'

He won't answer – I wasn't expecting him to – but I know he listened. Even with the distance act, I know he'll do that for me. Because when it matters, it's just that: an act to keep up appearances.

'Oh, there's powdered milk in the cupboard', Sherlock adds helpfully. 'It no longer contains body parts.'

Gee, thanks! I grimace anyway.

'Duplicate...' My friend calls out. He doesn't let the genius biochemical copy get away with their natural laziness.

Grumpy, the genius called out gets up and comes to the kitchen. I'd swear his pouting like a four year old and I try to hide a giggle. He brushes past me stiffly, grabs the (bloody) milk bottle and bangs it against the side table, where Sherlock's precious secondary school microscope is prompted.

'Thank you', the usual genius says from his armchair, not really meaning it. Completely ignoring that the milk on the tabletop is not disposed off.

Second Sherlock just grumps and walks off, locking himself in Sherlock's room. Apparently he already knows that's their room. Or he just couldn't care less. But he probably just deduced it from the periodic table on the wall.

'Sherlock...' I start with a sigh. I've seen a lot of shit in my days, but this is too much. 'This is going to be a nightmare. And for what? Sherlock, you know I'll always do my best to keep you safe. Having a clone that walks and talks just like you as a decoy target, a dummy for a hit...' Will the duplicate actually comply with it, based on the fact that he comes with a three days due date? What happens if he saves my friend from a marksman's shot and the marksman shoots again? What if the clone himself turns unpredictable and tries to open his own consulting detective's office?

Sherlock smirks knowingly. 'Duplicate is growing on you', he reads easily. Then he ponders: 'Shouldn't be surprised. I haven't changed all that much and you've chosen me as your friend.'

Whatever he thinks he saw between the clone and me, I haven't felt it myself. 'Well, your clone is not warming up to me', I deadpan.

Sherlock actually smiles. 'I wouldn't say that. You should know... geniuses can be quite uptight when it comes to opening up, and I think you've touched a chord already, John.'

'How?' I blink, confused, glancing at the abandoned milk bottle.

'By being kind and unsolvable', he pronounces. Then he adds for good measure: 'Great attributes for an assistant.'

'I'm not your assistant, I'm your blogger', I bark. Reminds me too much of Mrs Hudson saying she's not the housekeeper, though. No one ever takes me seriously.

.

TBC