A/N: Real life got in the way. Hope this makes good sense as I'm on a sick day, so I wanted to write to pass the time. -csf
VIII.
'Here, have this', Sherlock hands me the blue pocket book he found among our vanished realities holiday maker John, without a second thought. I'm the storyteller, the narrator of emotions and motives that helps Sherlock navigate a emotive world that is extraneous to him. He trusts me too much, if he thinks I can make sense of quantum physics and time travelling gibberish, along with motivations and choices. 'And have some coffee, extra strong.' The hot mug is pushed right against my sternum, spilling slightly so that it burns the fingers with which I claw at the wobbly china.
I open my mouth, but before I can protest, he adds: 'It's not tampered with', he pre-empts, and smirks wryly.
I death glare him, but not miss the obvious certification of this man as my Sherlock. I seem to need these periodical reassurances of a shared history. Call me paranoid, but there's a heavy atmosphere when there are too many lookalike geniuses in the room, and I'm at an obvious disadvantage.
The recent guest watches on, face completely inscrutable. He's been like that for a while, either conserving energy like a cold-blooded lizard brain in a human flesh shell, or plotting our murders silently; with Sherlock the chances are always on the latter, it's a known pastime of his.
My flatmate ostentatiously pours himself some of the same coffee, with too much showmanship. Must be because I haven't sipped mine yet, and it's making him insecure.
'Ta for the coffee, but what do you want me to do with this pocket book? A séance?' I ask gruffly. I know where this is going. I'm being asked to deduce whatever my counterpart has already deduced in another reality. John vs. John. Who's the cleverest? Which consulting berk has the best sidekick? I'm being used in their battle of egos. I don't like it, but the runaway traveller is more important than any of these tricks. I need to ensure he's alright, even if it means giving these two eccentric geniuses exactly what they want for a while. Lord forbid they get bored and disengage.
'You can find my John', the foreigner assures me, suddenly jerked back to action with too much passion in his voice for a self-proclaimed sociopath. If he too, ever claimed that unique identifying trait. He must have, it's a very Sherlockian thing to do.
My friend adds: 'It's a dangerous business to hop along parallel realities, John. He needs our help.'
I take a deep breath. I know I'm being played. Might be that it's coincidently what I need to do. 'Alright. On one condition, Sherlocks.'
'What?' they both ask, astonishingly humble. It's unexpected, as a generous deference. It glows warm light deep in me.
'Well, it's John's decision, where he wants to go from here. If he wants to go home with you', I point a finger at the outraged exaggeration on one side, 'or if he wants to move on', I glance at the man who showed me the meaning of home.
They both glance at each other, in a slightly combative way, before they acknowledge my condition reluctantly. I have a feeling there may be fingers crossed hidden behind their backs.
.
Flanked by two extremely determined Sherlocks, doctor Watson of Baker Street is no less conspicuous as he quickly scans the busy streets of London we are traversing. Solving parallel universe travel from a scribbled pocket book is alright, but if we want to find John, we need to go find that portal before he does.
For a long time he may have told us all he wanted was to go back home, to his Sherlock, but now his flatmate found him, John got spooked. I guess he wasn't ready.
Not even seven Sherlocks got John ready to face his unfinished business with this difficult but brilliant man. How many more realities, how many more Sherlocks and Johns he needs to meet, before he sees the common thread to us all, and recognises it in himself, before he trusts enough to hold himself accountable for the making of his own reality?
It's a very humbling experience to know where you've come from, and a reassuring gift to know where you're able to go yet – particularly if you've seen yourself succeed in a parallel world. But in the end it's about discovering your own hidden strengths and to fight for what you want. And there's only so much learning you can take from snippets of yourself you study through quick visits achieved by means of a magical portal. It's too easy to stop recognising yourself in too many doppelgangers, to lose essence in too many external variations along different travel paths. Sometimes we can't quite recognise ourselves as easily as we read others. I suppose it's a human thing, keeps us sane.
Sometimes it holds us back.
'Let me get this straight, you hid the portal so that your John wouldn't take off without you', consulting detective Sherlock starts. 'So when we got to Mrs Turner's backyard, the bin was gone. Only a environment unfriendly pile of packages and other recyclables littered the patio slabs.'
'Naturally. My priority was to keep John here in this reality until I had a chance to— say, converse with him.'
My Sherlock searches me for a quick glance to exchange. I don't follow.
'Once you got hold of your flatmate, you proceeded to quickly vanish with him, only you had my John find you gaining entrance to 221B.'
'Correct.'
'What made you go to the flat?'
'I was tantalised by the skull on the mantel.'
'You're lying. Also, you can't have it. I don't share old friends.'
'Can't blame me for trying.'
I clear my throat, look straight ahead, and assure the high IQ audience: 'Fibbing, Sherlock, is just like lying.'
The posh visitor makes a contempt filled grimace much akin to Mycroft's own. I don't suppose he's too used to being told off by his belittled assistant.
My friend smirks, with a hint of pride. I'm definitely his John, this is familiar territory.
'Lying?'
Sherlock backs me up fluidly. Good thing too, for I only had intuition to go on. 'Lying through your teeth. You went back for the violin.'
I blink. Oh. 'The one your John has been keeping an eye on, all this time', I add, fluidly, as a shared knowledge. 'The one he placed next to me, when he couldn't be first choice himself to guard it from you. I don't know how, and you don't know it either, but that violin, when played, can calibrate your space-ship-portal-thingy to the correct coordinates and best travel route. That's what you were doing when I first found you. Testing the violin strings, remember?'
He stops short, pale and thunderstruck, watching me with burgeoning eyes.
My Sherlock smirks warmly, in his most revealing attaboy expression.
I grin smugly at my success. Didn't think I was that oblivious, did you?
'Anyway, where's that bin already?' I ask, looking around. I know a thing or two about saving face. Geniuses appreciate that very much.
The unnerved Sherlock protests: 'Don't know what happened, I just hid it in a skip somewhere around here. It was dark, it was night, I'm sure we're near it...'
'A skip?'
Sherlock and I groan at the same time.
.
'If we can't find the skip, you'll have to build another portal. I can't have a second me walking about the streets, it'd ruin my reputation entirely! People would doubt the genius of a consulting detective who is, to all appearances, just a collective of several twins. Mathematical genius being the sum of the separate geniuses combined.'
We're walking aimlessly now.
I sigh and try to get practical: 'We could build a portal out of something large, urban camouflaged. No telephone boxes left, but the red ones for the tourists. The ones now used as Internet hotspots should be mostly empty? Someone seeing all three if us getting inside should be fun! New rumours for the rag press...'
Sherlock suggests instead: 'It needs to be big, yes, but portable. And there's nothing wrong with a personal touch. I'd choose a coffin, myself.'
'How practical is to carry a coffin around? No, how about Mrs Hudson's car? Like a Delorean, but for parallel traffic instead of time continuum.'
None if the Sherlocks get my pop culture reference so I'm forced to abandon that idea. Pfft.
'A really large fridge?' Second Sherlock suggests yet. 'Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind the extra body parts in hers, so they won't go rotten.'
'Remind me never to set up a mystery creating agency with you lot...' I mutter, annoyed now.
My Sherlock looks amenable, the visiting twin looks outraged, I notice, but file away for later analysis.
'Wait, there!' I point with an outstretched arm.
Across the back alley Street a very peeved looking John Watson is dragging a wheelie bin back to Mrs Hudson's.
We all stop and stare.
As if by shaken by invisible curiosity lines, he turns his head towards us, spots us and let's his shoulders sag. A fake smile plasters on his face as his eyes flicker around for possible escapes routes. Finding none, he drops his pretence and rolls his eyes.
'I'm not who you think I am, by the way', he says in a smoky tired voice. 'You haven't met me yet. Would you mind terribly if I dropped this here for the realities traveller John? He'll need this to help his Sherlock.'
The tall man beside me stiffens at once. 'Help me?'
'Gosh, no. Not you. Your John hardly gets how to navigate portals. He once tried boarding a cupboard, convinced it could be a portal also. No, Evil Sherlock's sidekick. He's determined to save his mate, I said I'd help.'
I feel my headache return with heavy pounding steps.
'Who are you, then?' I dare to ask.
'Oh, never mind me, I'm just an amateur musician in my Sherlock's rock band. I said I'd help John.'
'No, wait, your Sherlock is a musician in a rock band?'
'Yeah. You must have seen that coming. Long hair, skinny clothes, sinful mouth, killer baritone voice, and half of London would pay to go to a venue where he'd be appearing?'
I squint. 'Are you sure you're not a groupie?'
He crosses his arms, ticked off. 'We don't use that name anymore.'
.
TBC
