John closed the door behind him, leaving the cold air outside.

It had been a nice day and an even nicer evening. John had been out with Stamford, an old acquaintance of his, enjoying a beer or two.

Now that he was home, John tried not to wake up Mrs. Hudson since her lights were already just wanted to crawl into his bed and sleep in the next day.

Making his way upstairs he thought for a moment that he had heard a violin being played. John stopped with one leg in the air and a hand on the railing and listened but when he heard nothing he shrugged with his shoulders. He must have imagined it then.

Continuing his way up he opened the door and went into the living room, already getting out of his jacket and tossing it on the couch. He turned on the light and squinted. Something wasn't right.

The light seemed dimmer than he remembered it being. Maybe it was defective.

John shook his head and turned towards the kitchen with the intention to crawl into his bed and sleep, he stopped however when he noticed someone standing at the window.

He immediately straightened his back. "Hey! Who are you and... Sherlock?!" John immediately deflated upon recognizing Sherlock's shape.

Sherlock simply stood there, looking out of the window with a violin in his hand and a bow in the other. So he hadn't imagined the music then.

"Of course you play the violin." John groaned and slapped his face lightly. Why wouldn't Sherlock play a difficult instrument, even very well from what he had thought he had imagined.

When Sherlock didn't react to him John became worried. He hadn't seen the detective for two weeks now and had almost started to worry that his initial thought had been true. That Sherlock was a hallucination and he was just going mad.

"Sherlock?" he called out in the room. "Or can only I see you this time? Can this get any weirder, Jesus"

Just when John wanted to walk up to Sherlock did the other move. He turned around, almost as if in slow motion. No one should look that handsome by just turning around. What was wrong with that guy?

John received a look that indicated that Sherlock wasn't happy with him, but at least John knew now that Sherlock was indeed back. "What? Are you cross with me now? You're not talking anymore?"

Sherlock just held his head higher as if he looked down on John, even from afar. "You weren't there the last time I was high," the detective sniffed. It sounded almost hurt.

"Of course I was there. You were just high as a kite. Maybe you just don't remember." John was confused, wouldn't Sherlock at least remember something from that night? Maybe a distinct feeling that they had met more than once?

"Please John, don't say stupid things like that. I remember everything that I choose not to delete. I meant the last time I got weren't there."

"Wait hold on," John held up his hand in a stop motion, walking over to his chair to sit down. "First things first: When was the 'last time you got high'? And why should we have met exactly there? This is rather random to me." He wasn't even going to ask after the deleting stuff thing for now. He was drunk and needed to tackle one thing at a time.

Sherlock just placed his violin on the table and started to sit down in the chair opposite of John, he still had the bow and made gestures along with his talking. "I got high two days ago," he still did that looking-down-on-John thing but it seemed more with the intention to convey how cross he was for being alone. John wasn't certain; he didn't know Sherlock that well. What a pity.

"As for your other question: It became obvious to me when I got high two days ago. You weren't there which wouldn't have been strange to me at all since meeting seemed random, like you said. What tipped me off was that there was suddenly stuff in my flat that didn't belong to me. Of course I own a few medical books but I do know every single one that I own. Suddenly there were more." Sherlock spoke fast but still understandable.

But John just didn't get the time to speak up, when he opened his mouth Sherlock carried on.

"What really convinced me was the fact that one of my pillows wasn't on the bed anymore. No I didn't misplace it; in its place was another pillow, not mine, that distinctly smelled like you."

John didn't even close his mouth and sat there like a gaping fish. He wasn't sure what he should ask first or if he should complain first. Sherlock had been lying in his bed, technically speaking, high and smelling his pillow?

Sherlock just stared at Johns open mouth for a few seconds. When it was clear that there wouldn't be anything coming from John he continued again. "Since this would have been the third time were we would have met I came to the conclusion that the pattern is quite simple and this meeting is only confirming it. We meet when one of us is high or drunk. Simple really," though Sherlock would have loved to know the cause of why it was happening.

"Anyway, we should probably tackle this issue right now. Are you moving your bedroom upstairs?"

If John had thought he had been shocked so far he truly was now. Sherlock even had the guts to look serious about that.

"What?! What do you mean moving upstairs, why should I move out of my bedroom?" He couldn't believe this, what was happening right now?

"Well," Sherlock started with a drawl "If we keep meeting and our stuff starts to appear around the others flat it's only logical, we're technically flatmates now. We should both have our own space."

John wasn't sure how to respond to that besides with staring. He had to gather his thoughts for a minute before he could even think about voicing what he had on his mind. "And why should I move out? You can move upstairs! It's the bigger bedroom, why should you have it? What if we never meet again, we don't know what's causing it and it could stop anytime, right?"

But being angry at Sherlock's request didn't hold on for long. Upon seeing the look he received John deflated and felt a bit guilty and he wasn't even sure what he had done wrong now.

Sherlock looked almost sad and he wasn't sure if Sherlock ever looked sad in front of anyone. Maybe he wasn't even meant to catch that expression as it passed over the others face.

"You don't want to meet again?" Oh boy, did Sherlock want to meet him? Keep seeing him?

"Of…of course I want to meet again but Sherlock, you have to think about it. I'm not someone who gets drunk very often and I don't want you to shoot up again. You have to stop that." That had been bothering John since the last time he had seen Sherlock. Someone so brilliant shouldn't do drugs.

"And how do you propose to do this then?! If I want to meet you I simply need to get a bit of Morphine into me, simple." Sherlock scoffed but John immediately leaned forward, a stern look on his face.

"Listen, I will not be the excuse for you to shoot up, do you understand me?"

There was an uncomfortable silence where neither of the men spoke. They just looked at each other, both of them standing up for what they had said.

Sherlock hit himself softly on the shoulder with his bow before he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Let's talk about our game, did you gather information?" Sherlock opened his eyes again and looked at John.

What a smooth change of topic. Not.

"Well," John didn't change his position, leaning slightly forward to show that he was still upset about the drugs no matter what topic. "I guess I should thank you. The reason why I wasn't around two days ago is because I got a job and I got a job because I talked to Molly." John explained.

Sherlock looked interested at John. "And? What did you find out, tell me already," his deep voice got eager with each word, his curiosity winning for now.

"Glad you're happy for me," John replied in a sarcastic tone since Sherlock hadn't reacted at all to the job thing. "I looked up Molly first since I believed that she would be easier to talk too compared to a detective inspector. Molly is really nice, a shy little girl. We talked a little bit before I brought you up. She has never heard your name before; at least she said she doesn't remember someone with that name."

Sherlock listened intently and didn't move a muscle as long as John talked.

"How strange, the Molly I know is very infatuated with me. She doesn't get the hint. So I assume that you had to talk to Lestrade." Sherlock put his hand in a prayer position and placed them under his chin.

John felt as if he was part of an investigation. Far too tired to be sitting in the light directed at his face or in this case Sherlock.

"Yeah, DI Lestrade was more difficult then Molly. If Molly didn't know you, what would be the chances with DI Lestrade. It would look strange if I asked someone I've never met about a random bloke."

"Stop stalling John, tell me what you found, I don't need to hear every little detail."

John scoffed. "Hey, let me tell you this the way I want, you started it and you wanted to know, so keep quiet."

There was silence again and John only continued when it became clear that Sherlock had gotten the message.

"So I was down at New Scotland Yard and asked after a DI Lestrade. He wasn't in at the moment; they said he was at a crime scene so I had every intention to return another day when this guy walked up to me. His face looked as if he had a permanent scowl. He wanted to know what I wanted from Lestrade; apparently he was one of Lestrades people, so I told him that I just wanted to ask after an old acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

John stopped in his narrative and breathed in and out. He could feel Sherlock bursting with anticipation over what John had found out.

"This guy, Anderson was his name, actually remembered your name. He didn't speak very nice of you and told me that I was late to ask after you. He said that you had helped Lestrade on two cases before you were found dead. Overdosed on drugs."It seemed that Sherlock had made a lasting impression on those two cases.

John hadn't even wanted to believe it at first but since he had accepted that a handsome bloke kept reappearing in his flat he could also accept the fact that Sherlock was dead in his world (dimension?).

Sherlock absorbed the information and dragged his fingertips, his hands were still in their prayer position, across his lips, drawing Johns attention to it.

"Interesting, I would say coincidence but I don't really believe in coincidences," replied Sherlock with a grin in the corner of his mouth. John just blinked confused at the other. "What do you mean?"

"That I did my research too John or should I say Dr. John Hamish Watson. You didn't tell me that you are a doctor." Sherlock still grinned as if he had the upper hand here.

"You didn't deduce it."After his dry reply Sherlock seemed to have become speechless. It actually took a few seconds before he spoke again. "Touché, doctor."

"Anyway, I deduce now that you don't like your middle name, quite interesting, the face you pulled." Sherlock nodded to himself and didn't even wait for confirmation and continued. "Unfortunately I found out the same about you. You have been shot in Afghanistan and died of your injury there."

It became silent again between them while both ingested that information. Was this the reason why they met?

"Wait, how did you find that out?" John asked confused. It was a good thing he wasn't really smashed or otherwise all this information would even take longer to register, let alone stay.

Sherlock placed his hands on the armrests and held his nose high again. "It does have advantages when your brother practically is the British government. Though he didn't know. I simply hacked the military data base." The detective seemed to snort at the end of the sentence, showing off how easy it had been, "Hardly the work of an hour."

"What I find interesting about all of this is that you still have been shot. The only difference: you have survived, while your other self in my world hasn't," Sherlock concluded while slowly looking up as if to sort his thoughts. John was kind enough to continue. "You have overdosed and killed yourself. The only difference is, now you're just on your way there."

John sounded displeased about this, because Sherlock taking too much still was an optioned here. He had been shot and that was over. He had survived, came back to London and found something he called home. But Sherlock was still taking the drugs like his other self and John wasn't sure how out of control Sherlocks addiction was.

Sherlocks gaze wandered back to John. He gripped the armrests a little tighter before letting his hands relax entirely. Displaying the very picture of indifference. "Well, you needn't worry about me too much in the next future then. There is a serial killer on the loose in London and I suspect that Lestrade will show up soon to beg for my help. I don't take Morphine on cases. I only take it when I'm without The Work."

"Don't sound so pouty," John replied, feeling the tug of a grin on his mouth but keeping it firm. Sherlock needed to understand how displeased he was about the drugs.

Sherlock muttered a low "I'm not pouty," but John didn't let that stop him and continued to talk. "I'm glad that you won't be taking drugs in the near future and I would be very glad if you would stop altogether, but, and let me finish my sentence Sherlock, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't want to see you anymore. You are an interesting bloke Sherlock and I'd love to see you more often. Even if it means having a ridiculous discussion about the bedroom, which we are not going to have. I mean it."

John let himself relax into his chair after that little speech, obviously tired from the day, alcohol and this conversation. He was also quite content with had felt good to get that off his chest.

He needed to blink a few times to let his mind register that Sherlock had gone completely still, not even a tiny little reaction.

No. That wasn't true.

There was a blush creeping up his long neck. John watched in a fascinated manner how it reached Sherlocks cheeks. He looked delicious.

John groaned after that thought and massaged the area between his eyes with his hands. He hadn't had a problem so far thinking of Sherlock as handsome. But delicious?

"Well," Sherlock started but clearly needed another try since his voice seemed to fail him. The detective cleared his throat and made another attempt. "Well, then we have a problem John. Staying…sober isn't working in our favour then."

John just smiled, strangely optimistic at the moment. "You'll find a way around it Sherlock. You're a genius are you not? And this is a proper mystery." John also might have the thought, in the back of his mind, that this mystery between them will keep Sherlock away from the drugs. If he could view this as a case he wouldn't take them, he had said so himself.

Sherlocks blush didn't back down. The compliments were clearly well received, something that pleased John.

Sherlock opened his mouth but took a few seconds to start talking. John must have really flustered him this time. "I…thank you John, I'll look into it."

He nodded at John before standing up. "You should go to bed, I can see you are tired and…even though I would love to keep you up I wouldn't endanger your new job. I just managed you to get it."

The corner of Sherlocks mouth moved up, giving John a smile that felt exclusive for the both of them.

"However," the smile grew more into a grin, "I do insist that we talk about the bedroom situation. I have a distinct feeling that you would mind if we suddenly find ourselves beside each other in it."

John just rewarded the other with a smirk on his own while he stood up. He wouldn't really mind if he woke up and find himself in the same bed as Sherlock but Sherlock didn't need to know that right now.

"Then I hope you're not insisting on it now because you're right and I'm tired. And I must look it too. I haven't been sent to bed in quite a few years now." John chuckled while he started to walk towards his bedroom.

Before he reached the door however could he hear Sherlocks deep baritone behind him in the kitchen. "Sleep well John, maybe see you soon."

John slowly opened his bedroom door and nodded. "Maybe see you soon too Sherlock, hopefully both of us sober." He waved with his other hand and entered his bedroom.

After he shut the door behind him John simply stood there. He marvelled at the thought how someone like Sherlock could be real.

He chuckled lowly to himself and shook his head. He had accepted quite fast that something like this happened to him and he wasn't even sure why. Maybe he was just bored out of his mind.

John stripped down to his briefs and flopped down on the bed, his side, because Sherlock had been right. One of those pillows was his and the other was new to him. He blinked, his gaze transfixed on Sherlocks pillow.

It seemed that he didn't even get to choose his side, this magic thing (or whatever it was) had already done that.

Curiosity got the better of him and he reach out to it. Johns hand hovered uncertain above it. Would the same happen like whenever he tried to touch Sherlock? Only one way to find out.

He lowered his hand softly and watched in fascination as the pillow slowly gave away under his hand. John could feel the fabric, different from the one he used, and slowly stroked it. Only when he tried to truly grab it did his hand go through, the tingling sensation taking its place.

John stared at his hand which was currently not visible to him, mourning the lost feeling. He retracted his hand and positioned himself properly on his bed.

He closed his eyes after he stared at the pillow a few minutes and settled himself to finally go to sleep.

Just before he truly fell asleep did he wonder if what he was smelling was the pillow. Is this how Sherlock smelled? He wouldn't mind smelling on the detectives curled hair to prove that theory.

Slightly grinning to himself he let the real world go and succumbed to sleep.