A/N: Here's some more exploration of the improbable.

Still not British, a writer, or am I ocupying multiple realities simultaneously - I think. How would I know? -csf

VI.

'Are you ready, Sherlock?'

The imperious eyebrow raised in the detective's stony face is the only retort to the overeager assistant.

'You are not my John.'

The blond man hardly backs down. 'No, I guess not. But I've got a Sherlock too, so we'll get along just fine, you and me.'

'You and I', the correction is issued coldly.

'Yes, the two of us. Glad to hear you agree, mate!'

'What? No!' Sherlock immediately protests, chasing after John, who has grabbed a John-jacket and is leaving the flat. 'No, I didn't say that! And don't you go taking my John's things!'

'Pft! I know you're not my Sherlock, you are a softie at heart, mate. I can do what I please! I can make as much tea as I like; hey, I could take over at the surgery so John would have more time with you in The Work!'

Tempting as it is, Sherlock knows to avoid scheming with an impish John Watson. It's a rare but endearing trait he recognises from his own flatmate, right now under the chemical onslaught of painkillers and as such absent from the picture. A fact that Sherlock begrudges in the short blond copy in front of him. He sees the con; this John wants to go back home. The humble man who hardly toed out of line in the detective's presence 24 hours ago, has blossomed into a very determined explorer and devilish creature trying to avail himself of this reality. And Sherlock isn't sure this John is certified as a medical physician either.

'John, get back here this instant!'

'Why?' the man defies, already halfway down the stairs. Sherlock dashes after him, affronted by this John having the last word with him.

'Come back here or I'll hand you over to my counterpart in your reality!'

Travelling John turns abruptly, as if electrified.

'Perhaps I'd like that! Ever thought of that? Perhaps I miss him, perhaps you are just—' he stops talking abruptly and deflates just as fast. He lowers himself to the woodwork steps suddenly with the coy moves of a lonely child, and asks softly:

'Did my Sherlock ask your John about me?'

The consulting detective takes a deep breath. Longing, loneliness. Sherlock has been used to them all of his life, but seeing them reflected in the form of a man he cares about so much amplifies the bitter detached memories of times past, when loneliness and the longing for a fuller life were the only filling of his days, until he smothered effectively all his feelings under the overachieving detective persona.

'No.' The dark haired man climbs down a couple steps. Any incarnation of John deserves better than sugar-coated lies. 'But I think he came here looking for you.'

John sketches a pale smile, as if in acknowledgement and gratitude for the honesty. He shakes his head, sadly. 'Nope. He just wants the codes to the portal back. I nicked them, had to – before you ask. My Sherlock doesn't want anything to do with me ever again.'

Sherlock comes down a few more steps and takes a careful seat just behind alien John. They both seat at the crook of the stairs, under the stained glass window. Silence stretching around them, the kind of peaceful and shared silence a believer finds at church. Not far behind that stained glass window is the bedroom where the missing John Watson rests.

The missing Sherlock Holmes prowls the night, homeless.

'Tell me about him, John. The other me in the other world.'

The smaller man brushes nervous hands on his jeans, tidying up the frayed fibres. 'He's brilliant. A genius. He can be awkward and funny and very human, despite all his...' he gestures to encompassing his head. 'Despite his giant brain. But you know that.'

'Tell me, then, why you stay with him. Why are you his assistant?'

The lost John sighs. 'I wish I knew. It's like we're meant to be. Together. I don't mean it in a romantic way, although we could also be, or not be, according to the parallel universes, for all I know, I mean I never knew for sure but I assumed so, except, yeah, it's complicated... Why do you stick around a non-genius like John?'

The detective smiles at the familiar name, but loses his confidence immediately after. 'He's brilliant. I never grow tired of him. He can be shouty and angry at times but his presence is so solid— Wait a minute, I was doing the questioning!'

'Seems to me, like all else, we share that too', John answers wisely. 'Wanna go bin diving with me?'

Sherlock glances up to the stained glass panel concernedly. All is quiet and peaceful.

'He'll be fine, mate. He'll sleep all night. We can leave him a note. And your violin.'

'My violin?' Sherlock is confused.

'He knows you'll come back for the violin.'

Sherlock chuckles with all Johns obsessions with his beloved violin.

.

Holding up a couple of geraniums, one in each arm, the well-dressed detective supervises as a copy of his familiar flatmate ransack Mrs Hudson's bins. He is impatient and unimpressed with the universe.

'The portal, John?' the long-suffering detective reminds, clipped. The short-lived attention span of this new assistant has too often proven dangerously thin. Not for the first time, the consulting detective of Baker Street wonders how his own flatmate wandered into his life so perfectly matching his needs, so easily adapting to an empty void Sherlock wasn't aware he had in his life.

Meanwhile the strange traveller is getting very worked up, when his plans to highjack the recycling fail. A metal tin rolls on the patio floor, rattling in its getaway.

'I don't get it. It was right here. Honest! I didn't—' The desperate blond from another reality topples over the recycle bin and tries to crawl inside, before clawing out egg cartons and an empty shampoo bottle.

'John.' Sherlock huffs loudly behind the man's back.

'Not now! I'm figuring this out!' The detective is still surprised at the new liberties this useless assistant, once timid and quiet, now takes. John paces, hands on his waist, facing the logical problem.

'John!' New reminder.

'What?' Squeaked protest.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. His John is a bit quicker on the uptake, a bit better trained, perhaps.

No, that's not true. His John has an unwavering trust in Sherlock's brilliance that leads him to follow the detective's lead each time. This John idolises his Sherlock, from his own reality, but doesn't trust him naturally.

Sherlock, not for the first time, dislikes himself in a few other parallel realities.

Although he appreciates his copies' genius in whatever they chose to do in life. That's quite reassuring.

'John, have you checked the house number marked on the bin?'

The assistant quickly scrambles out of the bin and realises: '223? We've got Mrs Turner's bin by mistake!'

'You'll make a great detective one day, John.'

'Don't be snarky on me, your landlady just lost my portal!'

'Don't be dramatic, it's next door', snaps Sherlock, handing John the geraniums. John just blinks, looks puzzled at the plant pots, and hastily puts them down, just as Sherlock is already ignoring the back gate and jumping the short, useless fence.

He is vaguely aware that the other man follows him. He is always aware of John's presence, he can map it out like blood splatters in crime scenes. Instinct. Except earlier, in the bedroom. Sherlock blames that on having his attention largely stolen by his true John; as the sun light eclipses the stars from the sky during the day. It's as if, now that his John is absent, the new John takes more space in his mind. It couldn't be longing, but of course not, he's a rational man, he doesn't do sentiment.

Sherlock Holmes is muttering in his own thoughts and keeping a condescending distance from his forced upon assistant, when he realises that Mrs Hudson's most coveted bin is gone from here too. He reaches the space where the lost bin would be, and studies the minor robbery and the bin's content spilled on the floor; a multitude of packages and recyclable urban waste spreading out as a mockery of a Victorian cornucopia design. Mrs Hudson's life spread out to the shrew eyes of the detective. That can't be a package of ready-made blueberry muffins mix – surely not! Mrs Turner's, certainly, envious of Sherlock's landlady's confectionery success.

'Sherl—!'

Sherlock turns abruptly to the sight of a tall, long legged man with a mop of black curls and quicksilver eyes grabbing forcibly Sherlock's borrowed assistant. Traveller John looks panicked and holds himself very still, very frightened, unable to fight for his freedom. Controlled by more than physical power, as if invisible lines of power extended like tentacles from this dark character. And it's not due to the gun on this Sherlock's hand, for that one is comfortably trailed on the consulting detective.

Which ruddy Sherlock is this one, then?

As if reading the confusion in his face, the man being kidnapped tries to assure: 'It's alright, Sherlock. This is my Sherlock. We – ugh – we're palls. We're alright.'

'Stop right there', the real Sherlock steps forward at once, raising a hand between the two of them.

An equally deep voice answers him back: 'I came here to catch this thief.'

Sherlock scrunched his face in outrage. 'You don't sound like me.'

The other Sherlock shrugs. 'It's like when you hear a recording of yourself, you never sound like yourself to your own ears.'

'Oh, clever.'

He shrugs, and glances around as if basking on the praise was too alluring for a vain man to pass.

Suddenly this side's Sherlock almost wants to keep this meeting short; watching his own flaws on display is a bit too much. Only enough room in this town for one dramatic consulting detective.

'I've had time to think it through', the kidnapper says, smiling to his audience. 'I've met a few other Sherlocks on my way here, after all... Although in fairness it could have been a conflagration of planetary dust when zooming across galaxies, it gets in your ears like deep diving after a while. I'm assuming that if I feel it, and you are sharing my reality, you feel it too.'

The investigator narrows his eyes. No, that's not true. Two Johns shared this reality and only one got hurt by the kitchen table massacre.

'That would make it ill-advised to fire that gun at me.'

Damn it, now Sherlock needs to postpone his basal needs to break this intruders nose for what he's done to his John. Treating him with contempt, carelessly pushing him away, as if he didn't understand, ignorantly unaware, of John's importance. Even of his own John's importance.

'It's hardly a stalemate, Sherl.'

'Your attempts at reading the mood of the room really need a bit of work. Which reminds me: you hurt my assistant, and you're trying to abduct my guest.'

A shadow crosses the man's angular face, and Sherlock congratulates himself that he could read it so well, as it was masterfully blanked for outside perusal.

'Your assistant did not follow in pursuit', the reply is dished coldly, as if pointing out a flaw in John. Could it be he did not know the damaged he caused?

Sherlock can feel the blood ringing in his ears now. His voice turns thunderous, murderous: 'My assistant—'

'We really should go. Inter-realities traffic jams and all!' the man being kidnapped interrupts, a bit panicked.

The consulting detective picks up on the interruption with the ease of musician ears trained on John's voice's every nuance.

Some new data has just been revealed. Think, Sherlock, think! He tries, but he's too hyped up on sentiment. Sentiment, of all things.

'It's alright, mate', John says, with a sad smile. The man deadlocking him yanks him forcefully on the way out of the tiny enclosed patio. 'Thanks for all the tea!'

Bad guy Sherlock clutches at the mild assistant he's kidnapping and forces them out, through the back gate. Sherlock rushes after them after a few seconds so not to jeopardise John's life, but by the time he reaches the empty alleyway behind the houses he cannot find a trace of the two men.

He's lost them.

.

TBC