A/N: You know when you start with a little lie, hardly more than a joke, then you have to add more and more detail, and suddenly it's on its way to becoming a parallel universe? Well, I wouldn't know, I fold quickly, as honesty is effortless; but Greg Lestrade is a man about to find out.

(Was this even an Author's Note?) -csf


2.

'It's obvious the gardener did it, and botched the job of trying to dispose of the wife's body in the compost heap, Lestrade! How else would the vine weevil eggs end up in her lungs! Granted, she was a vegan so there's some brilliant "Universe's revenge plot" sarcasm in there somewhere, or maybe it just makes it all the more poignant that she was on her way to compost, but—'

DI Lestrade decides to cut the diatribe short before it got even more bizarre; knowing Sherlock, it would have. Instead he offers:

'Fine, I'll get my men on the widowed gardener at once. Anyway, how are you getting on, you know, with the news of this French super sleuth?'

Sherlock blinks as if his whole processing unit had been short-circuited by sheer shock.

'You read the papers.'

'The papers were just picking up on the story on a slow news day. It's actually an internet phenomenon, Sherlock. A bit like you, after John's blog.'

Behind Sherlock, I give the nice inspector a hand wave. They haven't been paying me the slightest attention up to this point.

They both face me with mild intrigue. Maybe they really hadn't noticed I was actually here, in Greg's tiny Yard office, sat by an overstuffed filling cabinet that towers over me.

'You don't look phased by this French counterpart, John.'

I shrug. Guess not. What's it to me?

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems possessed by self-righteousness.

'He's a charlatan, a mere doppelganger with a ridiculous accent!' he accuses.

Patiently, Greg points out: 'You never actually heard him speak. He doesn't do interviews, a bit shy it seems.'

'I've imagined him!' Sherlock still protests, incensed. 'I read all available reports, and his cases are trivial, mundane, a five-year-old could solve them!'

'That's not what my mate in the Parisian Gendarmes says of this guy, this Lupin.'

'Even the name is ridiculous.'

'It's an alias. The guy isn't as quick as you were to post publicly his address and mobile number. Suppose that keeps the Moriarty type characters at bay.'

The British consulting detective huffs.

'I've been through France and left my mark first', he claims, looking pleased.

I interrupt darkly: 'Now, that would have been when you faked your own death, huh?'

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer – it's a pull stronger than him – and with evident effort keeps to mute, and closes his mouth. Only a strangled protest keens from his throat.

He turns vociferously to Lestrade.

'Tell me about this French detective, all you know, now!'

Greg smirks and sips a cup of old coffee, rimmed with days old marks of the beverage.

'He's situated in Paris, where he liaises officially with the police on their most baffling cases. I hear he plays the cello and is an excellent boulanger. That means he bakes magnificently. He's got a mate, just like you, Sherlock, that helps him solve cases.'

'An army doctor?' Sherlock interrupts, glancing at me, as if mentally comparing me already with the French companion.

'No, but admittedly just as useful. He's a medical examiner, runs autopsies.'

Sherlock still looks my way thoughtfully. I crosses my arms in front of my chest, glare and tell him:

'Don't you ruddy dare...'

Sherlock grins widely, boyish.

'Just kidding, John. While imperfect, I've come to find you are just who the partner I needed.'

I still keep a wary eye on him, just in case. I'm onto him, thinking he can swap me for a more gothic model, or what?

Greg Lestrade interrupts our silent exchange with the haste of near panic:

'I hear the sidekick is a dull guy who wears suspenders, anyway.'

Sherlock turns to our friend. 'Hardly. I read his latest web post. Mediocre writer, but athletic built going by a description of an uphill sprint after a kidnapped child, trapped in the boot of a Mini.'

'Wasn't a Mini, it was a regular city car.'

'So you read the story too, inspector.'

Greg visibly gulps.

'I might have, so what?'

Sherlock huffs indignantly, looking dramatically hurt as he twirls and walks out of the office. Greg and I exchange quick, equally apologetic glances, just before I rush on out after my mad friend.

.

'You know it's not a competition, Sherlock.'

He glares at me from his organic chemistry modelling set. Must be a huge, complex compound, considering the model he is building out of balls and sticks already occupies all free space from the coffee table and the kitchen table, where it initially started sprawling out.

'Yes, it is a competition, John. I didn't start it, though. He did. Lupin.'

I try to keep my patience.

'It's not the sort of competition where you can beat him by publishing the complete 3D stereochemistry of a new type of...' I keep the end of my sentence hanging.

'Rocket fuel. Or maybe racing car petrol. Depending on the stability of the additives, John.'

'Of course', I retort with my most straight face. 'Naturally.'

Sherlock is so easily ticked off lately, always on edge, trying to prove himself. He really doesn't need to, his audience is permanently in awe. Somehow that's not enough.

Mycroft must have said something to him again. They had an awkward conference call on Christmas. Sherlock locked me out of our flat that afternoon, and he never showed up to collect me from the hospital shift in Mrs Hudson's car. With an eerie omnipotence, Mycroft warned me via a conveniently timed text. He offered to kidnap me in one of his dark cars with tinted windows, but I told him nah, I'd take the Underground instead.

Having come from the hospital in a swaying, brushing sea of commuters during a ruddy covid pandemic, I was in desperate mental need of a thorough shower. Sherlock wouldn't unlock the flat's doors. Considering I could never find a proper lock on those doors, to the living room and to the kitchen, I'm still guessing how he managed that. Probably the old trick of jamming chairs under the door handles! I think I got it! I'm starting to deduce like Sherlock. Well, no, it was just a guess, not really deducing anything at all. Still...

It was Mrs Hudson who welcomed me to her flat, and let me shower, and even have a cup of tea, and crackers and cheese, she even provided me with some of her late husband's clothes. You know, the one who was a gangster serving life on a Florida penitentiary.

When Sherlock finally quit stomping the floorboards, disparaging in Latin exclamations of dramatic magnitude, and torturing the taunt strings of his violin, I was finally allowed back in 221B, for he had quite finished with his brother.

"Tough call?" I had asked.

"Oh, not at all. Quite civilised, by Christmas standards. Do come in, make yourself at home, John. Thank you for waiting."

I let it pass, all my pent up frustration, for the man had actually just said Thanks for once. I guess it really was Christmas!

Following Sherlock with absent eyes, I find him suddenly looking at me, quite intently, in the early days of January, where we left off.

'You're not jealous of the French assistant. Lestrade noticed it too', he tells me, as a pocket-sized deduction.

I shrug as a personal opinion. 'It's spooky, though, to imagine two other blokes like us, but in Paris.'

'Another city, another time, what does that matter!' Hands flutter about in meaningless exaggeration.

'So what exactly bothers you, Sherlock, about them?'

The consulting detective stops to straighten the mirror above the fireplace. He's not facing me as he retorts: 'I like to be idolised, not carbon copied, John. It's disconcerting. Makes me overthink my habits, my qualities, my shortcomings. It sparkles too much self-evaluation, John.'

Strike out insecure detective, and make that perfectionist detective, I think.

'Right, so, ugh, what's the assistant's name then? Jean?' I mock, going for the French version of my name. Not Jean like the American girl's name, more like a rogue Victor Hugo character.

'Yes, it is, how did you know?' Sherlock is mildly amazed. I groan at once. The consulting detective is quick to offer, in solidarity: 'At least yours is not named after a grain legume.'

'And a gentleman thief and master of disguise character from the early 1900s.'

'Oh, that's more promising. Thank you, John.'

'You're welcome. Look, seriously, Sherlock, I don't want to see you altering your ways just because there's a new sleuth on the internet. I mean, just imagine if every time there is a new internet cat sensation out there, they actually started competing...'

'They do. I can give you notes on what cats to follow on social media.'

'I mean, the real cats', I correct him drily.

'Who do you think runs those accounts?' he replies, with big fake doe eyes.

I roll my eyes. He brushes me off again, by picking up his violin and bow. I think of making myself tea, but look over my shoulder to confirm the kettle has been taken prisoner by a benzene ring with two hydroxyl groups. Oh, tough times ahead.

.

'John, it's preposterous! I got a letter!'

I'm startled awake in my tangled bed sheets by a frantic detective in full histrionics. I blink and tick on the bedside lamp with the same hand that has grabbed the gun from under my pillow by reflex.

'What do you mean, you got a letter?' I try to focus. 'Since when do you open your own post?'

'Since the NHS started appropriating my assistant to have him save lives for them most days of the week', Sherlock answers with calm dignity. I frown, and realise I haven't sorted 221B's post in ages.

'Yeah, speaking of which, I've just returned from a very long shift', I enunciate as best as I can, through a jaw dislocating yawn, 'do we need to do this now?'

Sherlock drops the hand that holds the piece of paper, presumably the letter, by his side, studying me. Then, eagerly like a five year old he comes sit on my bed, making the mattress bounce with energy. 'John, you look tired.'

'No sh—'

I stop abruptly as his fingertips come trace my cheek in a soft, almost coy, gesture.

'I'm sorry I can't kidnap you and imprison you in the flat for a considerable resting period, of similar duration to the rest of the pandemic.'

'You're sorry you literally can't, or that it would morally wrong?'

'The latter, for I'm quite sure that, although I can't overpower you for long considering your military training, I am inventive enough to super-glue you to the armchair.'

I shake my head, amused. Sherlock likes to role play scenarios in his mind. This one should keep him busy a few hours.

'What's up with the letter?' I ask, at last.

Sherlock stretches to grab a homely cardigan from the back of my desk chair and layers the wool on my shoulders, even before he answers, nonchalantly:

'A letter of invite to a competition between international sleuths, John.'

'Solving cases?'

'Yes, by turn of the post. This will prove once and for all that you have chosen the right detective to which to pledge allegiance, John.'

I yawn and roll over in my lukewarm duvet.

'Go for it. Knock yourself out. Wake me up when you win.'

There's a blessed second of surprise – something I said? – before Sherlock starts divesting me of my duvet and unpeeling me from my bed, completely ignoring my lack of cooperation.

'Come, John, I need you. Can't win without you!'

.

TBC