A/N: I've got no wisdom to impart here, that I can think of. -csf

Context: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much.


. 5

'John?' There's a soft questioning tone coming from down the corridor, and soon enough padded footsteps on the wooden floors come to meet me in the kitchen. I glance at the incoming Sherlock and, still not particularly merciful, I ask briskly: 'So, which one are you?'

That particular Sherlock reacts with confusion and looks taken aback. 'I take it your shoulder is giving you a hard time this morning', he replies, with no bite.

'Great deduction', I grump, sarcastic. 'Both of you can deduce just fine, so my question still stands.'

I was shooting Whichever Sherlock a dirty look when my hand shook and the heavy boiled kettle fell off its grasp as my clutch on the object just gave away of its own accord. I hiss as some of the scorching water spills over my hand. Whichever Sherlock guides me, cool-headed, to the sink and turns in the cold water over my burn for relief.

'I can make tea', he offers, unexpectedly.

Shaking my head, I assure him: 'It wasn't your fault. It was just a silly accident.' Sherlock needs to be told these things out loud, and his immediate help is easing my suspicion with the whole multiple Sherlocks thing.

'Maybe I want to make tea.'

I squint. 'You still won't tell me which one are you?'

'Does it really make a difference?' he depreciates. 'Don't!' he hastens to stop me as I mean to pull away from the tap. 'You're a doctor, you know you need to keep cooling the affected area longer, John.'

'Why would you care?'

He shrugs. 'Who says I do?'

I can see right through the feigned indifference. This is my friend, the true Sherlock. Furthermore, only the true Sherlock seems to ever have had the patience to quietly let me blow the steam off when I'm aggravated. The most sociopathic detective of London – or so he says – is one for the old adage; no two good partners should be angry at each other at the same time.

'Can I go now, Sherlock? The kettle's getting cold', I remark, calmer.

Sherlock nods, still eyeing me closely.

'How did you decide who I am? You haven't paid close attention to scars, wrinkles or any other telltale sign I'm aware of.'

Can't help deducing me all the time, can he? I pull on a brave smile. 'I just knew', I say, refusing to let on my secrets. He keeps all his attention on me. I look away, feeling shy for a moment.

Sherlock is frowning curiously, as if facing a particularly challenging mystery.

'Anyway, John, the clone will take the sofa, tomorrow.'

'Oh, yeah? How come?' Should I be suspicious of my victory?

'Well, he should be closer to the door, given he's the sitting duck, the target, to any incoming bad guy.'

'That's hardly motivating for him.'

'I'll compromise in entering a rota too, John. We can take turns on the sofa. In three days time, when your turn comes up again, there will be no clone, and you can keep to your own bed.'

I smirk tightly. 'Tomorrow night there will be no clone either. How convenient for you.'

Sherlock looks away, seemingly innocent. 'Not my fault, I volunteered, after all.'

'What if he shares your bed? He's you, after all, Sherlock', I suggest, calmer.

'No way! He'll hog all the covers...'

'Yeah...' I agree, with no particular intonation.

I can't help but notice that the clone is less appealing to the real Sherlock now, as he still creates ruffles with the original and sets himself independently apart from the original Sherlock. The Baker Street's consultant is not one to follow leads very well, not even when they come from – sort of – himself.

My Sherlock is also particularly sensitive to the tiny details that set them apart. Especially the age gap and supposed fitness difference. But I think it's got more to do with Sherlock not being able to withstand his trademark abrasive behaviour in others. Too many divas in the room, sort of thing.

Sherlock places two mugs with passable tea in the kitchen table and we both take a seat.

Sipping my tea, I ask my friend: 'So, what do you think of your old self, now you see it in display?'

Sherlock almost flinches at my question. 'Slow, sluggish, not as finely tuned.' I turn to Sherlock – the real one – with perplexity. 'Too much food, too much sleep', he waves his hand dismissively.

This is wrong on so many levels. Come to look at nowadays Sherlock, he looks skinnier than ever. It can't be healthy. I thought we had addressed this. Perhaps we did, perhaps it just wasn't enough.

Sherlock is sometimes prone to some body dimorphism in the way he views himself. He's not necessarily vain in the usual sense, but he appreciates his own looks with a healthy dose of narcissism. Also, he won't refuse to play on his looks for his work, to gain advantage or leverage.

I've always figured Sherlock's love of haut couture suits and flawless lines in his figure goes in line with the highly demanding way he pushes himself to his limits in everything else he does in life. When engaged on a case, he doesn't eat, sleep, or stop unless his body forces him to. He won't respond to the natural mechanisms of exhaustion, hunger or thirst except at their limits. So I've often tried lecturing him about healthy eating, but found him to be born idle when it comes to managing his own food intake. So I often cook enough for the both of us, but then he's still too busy to eat. I find it's easier to trick him to it, by leaving plates of food lying about, clearly for him, without making a fuss. Whether he eats them by conscious choice or pure distraction, I'm still not sure, but I do what I can to keep Sherlock healthy. I'm a doctor, after all.

Sherlock has come to depend on that.

Or not. He has lived on his own, chasing Moriarty's network. I don't know the details, as Sherlock refuses to share them, but I don't believe they included healthy, hearty meals at the time.

I look down on my tea mug. Sherlock doesn't need me, not like that, anymore. I don't know why he so desperately wants to keep me close, but in the rare occasions we actually have a fight Sherlock always gives in first. Because he doesn't want me to go. He'll throw away the milk with liver samples, he'll volunteer to hypothetically sleep on the sofa, just to keep me around. He even accepted this clone from his big brother so the risk befalling me is lessened – he won't doubt I'll always protect him, and he's not naïve enough not to know I risk my life at it.

That's why he won't return the clone to the sender, now his copy irritates him. His clone means an easy target, alright. It also means double the protection act on his old sidekick. I know that detail has not escaped Sherlock's shrewd mind.

.

'Our friend has a bit of a temper', the clone confides to his original, within earshot of the one he's talking about.

'Our friend?' Sherlock repeats, stopping at that. 'Well, we like to push his buttons, keep him on edge, keep his adrenaline going. And John Watson is much more than', he waves his hand freely in the air as he looks for words, 'warm cups of tea, fluffy jumpers and spiky hair. I wish you'd get to see him in action, he's quite the force to be reckoned with. All this ...peace and quiet... it's a waste on the man. Right, John?'

I sigh. He knows I'm listening from the other side of the room. Sherlock is messing with me again, as openly as I've never seen before, because after all his accomplice is a version of himself, with a due date. One thing Sherlock is impeccably right about; he's getting my adrenaline up.

'Sherlock, don't mess with me. Soldier, remember?' I warn from behind my laptop, where I'm pecking at the keys at high speed.

Sherlock confides to his clone, still in earshot: 'He's also a blogger, but you'd never know that just by looking at him.'

The clone squints. 'He has managed to avoid the telltale signs of flattened fingertips resultant of typing too much, by reducing his speed considerably. That's a brilliant example of self-control!'

'No, that's just John's best skills, I'm afraid', Sherlock counters, falsely pained.

I roll my eyes and think of poor Mrs Hudson. She's so fond of Sherlock, she'd miss him terribly.

'Speaking of blogs', I remind them, 'you two should be able to solve double the amount of cases. None of you is on holidays, get it?'

My Sherlock deflects: 'But John, all those clients are so commonplace, their crimes have no flair, no element of–'

The clone interrupts, curiously: 'You can get clients from a blog? Can I see the blog?'

Sherlock whiplashes his neck to face his clone at once.

I'm smirking, as I can sense the competition escalating between those two, who were best friends just a moment ago. I shouldn't have been surprised, if Sherlock was going to along so well with someone, it'd have to be with himself, following some narcissistic streak in him. Now, so soon, the two are clashing opponents, fighting over who's the best detective – the one of today, or the cold rational machine of a few years ago. The world can benefit from a little feud. Together they could sort out Scotland Yard's cold cases archives in a week.

Too bad Mycroft won't lend us the clone for a full week, in Scotland Yard's benefit.

'You'd get bored by the clients' over emotional narratives, Duplicate.'

'Nevertheless, I'm sure I could solve some cases, Original.'

'We can't take the chance they'll notice you are not me.'

'What do you mean? I am you!'

I get up quietly from my armchair and hand over my laptop to the clone as I walk out.

At least London should benefit from Mycroft's ethics-bending sci-fi frolics.

My best friend stomps out of the living room, outraged by my supposed betrayal. I think he goes down to Mrs H to tell on me. I sigh and try to preserve whatever sanity I have left as I go up to my room.

.

Living with two Sherlocks should be detrimental to one's mental sanity, according to Greg. Molly, on the other hand, upon hearing of the latest, just bit her lower lip in worry. She was still biting her lip whenever she wasn't speaking as I left the morgue with a couple of cold cases with Greg's agreement – one for each Sherlock.

I'm shrugging off all of their well-meant commiseration. The way I see it, I'm quite lucky. Not only do I get to have Sherlock in my life (the one I once thought I had lost forever to Death), I have his clone to keep me company when the real Sherlock is too absorbed in his work to even notice I'm there. My best friend hasn't done that much lately, but he can't really help himself. If Sherlock is deeply entranced by his scientific, forensic or murder-mystery studies and I take a seat, tiredly, by the fireplace after a long working day, the clone can come over to keep me company, right? I know the clone likes my cups of tea too; most likely he's as bad at tea making as my original friend. I always make three cuppas now.

The real Sherlock is getting a bit jealous, I can tell, but what doesn't kill the genius will make him stronger. Perhaps he'll come to value my presence better.

Meanwhile, what my best friend cannot understand is that, no matter the shared genes pool, the two identical looking men are not so similar in their personalities. They have diverged since the initial stem cell collection, they have walked different paths, evolved differently. The clone was brutally naïve, a childish brat and emotionally unstable when he got brought to Baker Street. Now he's settled down and has become more tranquil, if still as much a brat. He's a nice guy, I like him. He's funny to have around, even when the joke is at my expense.

But he and I haven't shared what the older Sherlock and I have. We haven't bonded the same. When desperate, drastic measures are taken, when you can only rely on one person in this world, when you are all someone has as well, there's a deep unspoken bond that forms between two friends. It's something you can never shrug off, it's ever lasting. The clone and I don't share that in-depth connection that the real Sherlock sees in us, and is so jealous about.

But I'll let the original genius suffer some more. Make sure he learns to appreciate me some more.

.

One hour and forty-five minutes have past since I brought the competing geniuses cold cases' data from the morgue. Molly chose the cases well, for the two Sherlocks are relentlessly trying to work out the circumstances of the two John Does' deaths. Foul play is a given; and if it wasn't, the two genius would despise the simplicity of the cases and refuse to believe in their straightforwardness, burning themselves to find alternative – and complex – more satisfying answers.

Unless Molly is getting payback, at last. Maybe the two cases really are actually so simple that the two detectives refuse to face the obvious. I wouldn't put it past Molly to know her Sherlocks this well.

I've been making some Italian pasta for lunch, quite sure that even sulky old geniuses and temporary clones need feeding. True to form, both of them have perked up to the smell spreading from the stove. I have decided to excel at this dish so to cut down the refusals – "My transport doesn't require food for another couple of days, John!" – and, going for the extra mile, I've gone down to borrow some fresh herbs from Mrs Hudson's window sill.

I may as well could have stayed downstairs. As I came up there was Sherlock – whichever one – licking experimentally the wooden spoon, coated with the sauce, and then returning it to the pan.

'John won't be happy with that', the other Sherlock says, languidly, from the armchair. 'Now he won't have it. He's a doctor and has all these puritanical notions about what is sanitary and what is not.'

Yeah, it's called "common sense", Sherlock.

'Drop it!' the other Sherlock spats out. 'Doesn't affect you. We are the same, remember?'

Sherlock is always grumpy when he's hungry and it smells of food he likes.

The detective sitting down rebuts: 'I wouldn't be too sure. I don't know what you've been licking these last few years since the cells harvest.'

The real Sherlock drops the wooden spoon and mutters mysteriously: 'That was only once!'

The clone looks at me, accusingly. As if I'm to keep his future self in better control from now on? I sigh and rub my face. Why don't I order take away?

'Great idea, John!' Sherlock says out loud, grabbing the pan off the stove and eating from it directly with the spoon. Forget the herbs, it has already got Sherlock's approval. So much so, that he's snatched it before his clone could.

'How did you read my mind?' I ask, in suspicion.

'Chinese, from the restaurant round the corner. Duplicate will love it. He hasn't tried it yet. Wasn't open when he was created. And the owner always gives this address extra portions since I saved his life from that circus mafia. Curious case, that was. Duplicate, you must ask John about it one day. John's the one who makes the case sound romanticised, adventurous and thrilling, when in fact it was exceedingly simple.'

I smirk. Was that a compliment? A hidden thanks for the food?

Geniuses. Can't live with them and can't live without.

.

TBC