A/N: Call it a trial run. Just trying it out.

I needed a whimsical exploration of what it didn't happen to be. -csf


I.

'Right, I'm off to work, Sherlock.'

The tall lean man seems impervious to the goodbye, still immersed in tumultuous swirls of the bow over the taunt strings of his violin. John sighs, grabs his house keys and phone from the side table next to his armchair, and gives a mock military statute to Sherlock's back, before exiting 221B.

He is thoroughly unaware that Sherlock's eyes follow him steadfast on the tall window panels reflection. He is further unaware that the musician's tune turns somewhat darker, sadder, lonely; plaintiff even. But to ask John not to leave would be ridiculous, ludicrous, exposing; and so Sherlock sticks to his secret language of music while once again John goes out to work at the hospital, and a case-less, bored, isolated detective stays behind.

A noise of wood snapping in the kitchen makes Sherlock turn abruptly, violin lowering, music suddenly interrupted.

Did John just climb in through the kitchen window?

'John, you just left!'

Downstairs the front door bangs shut.

Sherlock does a double take on the familiar man in his kitchen. 'I just saw you leave', he insists, un-genius-like.

The slightly dishevelled doctor shakes his head. He seems out of breath and shakes dust off his clothes. 'I just came in through the window. Look, Sherlock, this is going to sound farfetched – even I am not entirely sure I believe it – but I'm not the John Watson you know.'

Sherlock blinks, breathes out and quickly paces back to the nearest living room window, drawing fully back the curtain and exploring the street below. A calm controlled voice replaces the earlier confusion. 'Not farfetched at all. John has just crossed the street', he recognises. Turning blazing fiery green eyes on the newcomer, he demands: 'Who are you? Why do you look like John?'

'Well, I... hmm...'

'You hesitate. You are an infiltrated agent of my brother's, who has underwent plastic surgery to look like my flatmate.' The detective pounces, approaching like a feral beast, contorted face locked in an odd mixture of scrutiny and horror. 'You are shorter than my flatmate', he declares.

'Oi! Am not! I am your flatmate!'

'Ha! Prove it!' Sherlock defies.

'Sure!' he responds with similar intensity. 'Tell me how!'

Sherlock grimaces, and for the first time, real doubt enters his carefully crafted expression.

That unrelenting trust in Sherlock's abilities and blind following of directions is very John-like.

'Maybe you are who you say you are', he admits, in a tense whisper. 'But so was he', the detective hisses, before trapping his head between his clenched fists, black curls spilling out between white knuckles. 'My senses are deceiving me, ugh!' He suddenly lowers his arms and steps forward to keenly look John in the eye. 'Have I been poisoned by an hallucinogenic?'

'Gosh, I hope not. Why do you say that? Have a seat, let me examine you. What did you have for breakfast?' The doctor is solicitous.

Sherlock pushes him away, huffing annoyed now. 'Who are you then?'

John finally exhales the breath he's been holding in for too long. He's holding back. Mistrust? No, he trusts Sherlock, as earlier proven. He distrusts his message will be understood then, but the John-twin levels his chin up and battles like a soldier.

'I guess you'd call me a time traveller. Don't ask me to explain things I don't understand myself, but I came from a different time-space continuum, and I need your help to get back home.'

One second. Two seconds. Three—

'Oh. Is that it?' Sherlock retorts, curious.

John sags against the kitchen counter. 'You... believe me? Just like that?'

'Yes. You're John. I can always tell when John is lying to me.'

'Not always.'

'Nearly always.'

The quick-fire exchange is familiar banter.

'And you'll help me?' John smiles, hopeful.

'Of course. If you've come to me for help, then you too have a friend like me in your reality, that you can trust his vast intellectual prowess and incredible wits.'

'I do', John states soberly, after a pause, but not willing to elaborate. Holding something back?

'He'll be missing you. Helping you return is just an extension of helping me, really. Selfishness, that's all.'

'That's the most selfless selfish act I've ever seen, mate.' John smirks, fondly. 'I'm glad you're helping', he further says before taking a seat in the nearest chair. 'None of the other 7 Sherlocks was of any use, and you have no idea what a pain it's like to continually hitchhike through the time-space-continuum.'

The detective gulps, eyes frozen stuck in the sea of blue-green tiles. 'Seven? John, how many parallel universes are there?'

The time traveller tilts his head. 'So you don't know. You're not one of those Sherlocks.' He sighs, his face rapidly looking grey and tired, hope extinguished. 'Then I don't think you'll be able to help either. Maybe I should just go.'

'What other Sherlocks are there?' the detective refuses to acquiesce to the social conventions of a goodbye.

John smiles, an admiring smile that perhaps reveals he's not yet done being amazed by Sherlocks.

'Tell me, what are you passionate about?'

'Murders.'

John smiles. 'You're like the second Sherlock I visited. I liked you best. But there you had never heard of me so I had to leave. I need the real Sherlock, either by luck or device. Well, the one that is real for me, anyway.'

'What were the other Sherlocks like?' the one in the kitchen asks in a whisper.

'All sorts', John evades. 'One banished me from my own reality, but it was all a mistake. That's the one I'm trying to return to.' He blushes a bit.

'But how did he—'

'Oh, right. I need you explain that too. You'd think I'd have a ready script by now, huh?' This John pre-empts criticism a lot, Sherlock notices. He wonders if he's own John just has tougher skin, or if – he winces at that – the alternative Sherlock is a bit too grating on the man's self-confidence.

'I wouldn't trust you if you had a well rehearsed story, John.'

'Oh, didn't think of that! Guess that's why you're the clever one. Well, you see, my Sherlock found the original time portal. He mastered it in a week. That's how he managed to— you know, throw me out.'

Sherlock frowns, speechless for a second. John shakes his head softly. 'Sorry. Too much in one go, I guess. And, really, if you're not into defying the laws of physics, you are just as useless in my quest as all the previous Sherlocks. I should go.' This time he actually gets up, determined.

'Wait!' Sherlock urges this mysterious man. He doesn't understand, but he knows he can't forfeit this enigma. Best puzzle he has had in weeks! And it's obvious this man needs his help. He'll spend eternity roaming the universe to find his way back without proper assistance. 'John, you're weary and it's late, and I want to hear your story. Why don't you stay a while?'

John's gaze is pained as it lingers on the man next to him. 'Gosh, I miss you', he blurts without even blushing. 'Okay, ugh, I guess I can stay a couple of hours. After all, time travellers can make up for lost time better than anyone else', he reasons with a smirk.

'Come into the living room and have a seat in your armchair by the fire.'

'I have my own chair in this reality? Gosh, thanks!'

Sherlock is both terrified and delighted by his new guest, as the fake doctor beelines for the empty chair with uncalled for enthusiasm.

.

Sherlock carefully removes his violin from the leather armchair, and takes a seat, in a customary contemplative pose. His hands reflectively steeple next to his chin, his eyes liquefy as they analyse the man in front of him.

The newcomer doesn't even flinch at the tight scrutiny. Much too accustomed, the detective credits. Damn his alternative self, for overusing their shared posture. Bet he made it look disgustingly normal.

John extends his hand to a forgotten book on the side table, checks its cover and gives a minute shoulder shrug. He'd read it, same literary tastes as my John.

'Seven Sherlocks, you said? Mycroft's worse nightmare, I gather', the deep voice of the detective rumbles.

John brings his restless hands to his lap, trapping them between restless legs. Sherlock notices, not for the first time, this John is less controlled, less military, thus exhibiting more of a childish vulnerability. It's endearing, in a way, but strangely at odds with the John Sherlock knows best. He can't help but constantly compare.

'You all have common traits, Sherlock. You are all brilliant for one. You are all intelligent, arrogant, independent, and you all think you're better than everyone else. Oh, of course! You all played the violin in each of the parallel universes. I find it quite interesting that you all play the same musical instrument, or even for that matter, that you are all very good at playing any musical instrument at all.'

'John. Focus. Tell me the differences between all these Sherlocks you found during your travels in time and space.'

'Yeah sure, gonna take a while, though. If you got the time', he pre-empts, subdued. Again, cautious and unaware of his own importance. As if he was just too used to rejection. Worse, ill-tempered rejection.

Sherlock is not entirely sure he likes himself in that parallel reality. So he deflects, for John's comfort and peace of mind.

'Are you asking me what the time is, or if I possess an unsubstantiated amount of time to delegate to this conversation we are already proceeding into.'

The visitor smiles.

'Funny, you remind me of someone with all that fancy speech. You know, the fifth Sherlock wasn't into big words at all.'

'John', the host says sharply, warningly. Focus. The visitor sighs.

'All right, Sherlock. Since when have I ever been able to say No to you? Listen to my tale...'

. Sherlock #1

My footsteps echoed lonely in the cold dingy floor in Bart's basement. Empty corridors and darkened passageways just as I remembered them from my own world, but by then I knew this reality wasn't quite like mine. I had just come from 221B Baker Street.

I had tried my keys in the front lock, they didn't fit. Seen Mrs Hudson when I knocked. She didn't recognise me. I told her I lived there. She assured me I didn't; her only tenant was an impossible man who would have thrown me out. As she closed the door in my face, I caught a glimpse of the post piling on the mat. There was something, looked like a payslip or some letter from Bart's. I had nowhere else to look for Sherlock, I decided to give it a try. To Bart's I went.

'I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. His landlady said I'd find him here.'

'Next door on the right, at the end of the corridor. You'll find him in one of the examining rooms. He'll be beating up the corpse with a riding crop, or dropping acid on a toenail, if you've got the stomach for that. With that freak, could be anything, who knows. The man is insane. Let's just say you'll be lucky to come out of there alive. Are you some kind of reporter? Or the police?'

'Something like that.'

I smiled; a simple nod and a smile. Just enough to keep to get the man out of my hair. I watched the cleaner move away, shuffling his tired old broom over a very stained on floor before I moved on down the corridor.

I hesitated at first. I didn't know what Sherlock would say when he saw me, if he would help. What if he thought that I had been cast out for good reason? Suddenly I wanted to turn and to leave, but I had come so far... and had nowhere back to return.

I pressed my ear to the fire door, I heard nothing from within. So I just went ahead and opened the door. I found him, alright. I found Sherlock Holmes. He was brooding over a corpse laid out on a cold stretcher. Wielding a chainsaw.

He gave me one quizzical look, much like I must have done the same to him. His white hazmat, full body suit was splashed with dark crimson streaks and his latex gloves had practically changed colour, yet nothing could detract my attention from those mercurial grey eyes I knew so well. He looked up straight at me and said: 'Oh, I didn't notice you'd gone out.'

I blinked. Fair enough. You think he'd notice? I mean, with him being the one who pushed me into another universe. But, of course, that's not what he meant. He thought I was someone else. And his eyes were cold, careless. I wondered if he was himself too.

In the end, I didn't say a thing. I didn't get a chance. Behind him another John Watson emerged. 'Who are you talking to, Holmes?' he asked. They both stared at me.

Barmy for sure. That's when I realised I had gone into the wrong reality. This wasn't my Sherlock. This Sherlock was a hazmat suit, hair net, preppy gent with an assistant he barely knew. He lived at 221B Baker Street, but John had his own life elsewhere.

'Hi, I'm just— well, hmm. Just—'

'Your twin, Watson?' Holmes asked sideways to his assistant, his eyes never abandoning me.

'Never saw him before in my life! Guess I don't just have a common name but also a common face. Look, mate, no visiting hours in the morgue, I'm afraid.'

The sad thing about different parallel realities is that although one of us might colour our hair, scars may appear or disappear in different incarnations, and some style fashion senses are really ghastly, still we all basically look the same. It's a throwback to the fact that we all basically share the same soul. And something in Doctor Holmes, the standard medical examiner, must have recognised the person standing in front of him as a John Watson who in different circumstances would have been a— well, nearly a soul mate. Unfortunately, he had no connection with the John Watson he knew, nor with me.

I was but a stranger to him. Worse, a carbon copy of a stranger.

'Sorry, wrong room', I muttered, and left, feeling a bit as if I was still floating in a dream. A bad dream.

Maybe I could try again? One wrong turn shouldn't mean the end of the journey, right?

I found abandoning that Sherlock, the first Sherlock I found since— well, home, was too hard to bear.

I ended up following that Sherlock home, that evening, from a distance. Maybe I didn't know what else to do, and searched for comfort in what was so familiar.

I saw him play the violin by the window, but he never saw me staying away from the rain under a doorway across the street. There were no investigative curiosity nor the love of discovery in science in that Sherlock. I felt cheated. I felt I had just encountered a dud. I felt so alone.

The next morning I was back at the morgue. I couldn't quite turn away and leave. It was ironic that even this pale copy of Sherlock beckoned all my attention, attracted me like a magnetic field. I couldn't abandon him. Maybe I wanted to explain what had happened yesterday. Maybe I missed him so much that a fake Sherlock was the next best thing to fill the void left behind.

That's when I saw them together, sat at a table, having a chat. Getting acquainted, talking about me over Bart's fish and chips Friday menu at the canteen. John had a big family, Sherlock was single, they both talked about K-pop. If nothing else, I had done something right. I had brought those two together.

I was clearly surplus, and I couldn't fit in that parallel reality. I left at last.

.

'You left', Sherlock hisses.

'That's what I said.'

'You had some sort of spaceship then, a vehicle to lead you away!'

The guest shakes his head.

'No, don't be silly, I told you, it's a portal.'

'How can that be possible, John?' the detective huffs, exasperated.

'How can you otherwise explain me being here right now in your assistant's chair?' John gestures impatiently. 'You know, for a genius you have a long intake time...'

Sherlock's eyes narrow.

'John is my friend.'

The blond man blinks. 'Yes, of course.'

'If you are who you say you are, if you know us so well, why did you call him my assistant?'

'Does he not assist you?' This John's blue eyes go innocent and wide.

Sherlock huffs. This John is holding back something.

'Tell me about the second Sherlock you visited.'

John hesitates. 'I'm pretty sure I'm tangible in this material reality. Mind if I make us some tea? Haven't eaten in nearly 72 hours.'

Sherlock raised alarmed eyes straight to John's blue ones. They look a bit unfocused on closer inspection, his skin a tad pale, even a bit gaunt. His John would never mistreat himself like this. Coolly, he replies, without shock:

'You recognise 221B as home, use it as such, please.'

'Oh', John let's out a disappointed sound, his hands further pressed between his legs, shoulders hunching as if he had just been scolded. 'Sorry.'

Sherlock winces at that sight. Then, carefully, he edges forward, and out of his chair, and almost kneeling in the rug between them, trying his best to look small and inoffensive. 'John, are you not allowed to make tea at your own will back home?'

A hint of fight tinges the doctor's cheeks red. 'I can make all the tea I like, but it's not my turn in the kitchen anymore so I shouldn't. You'd be upset with me.'

'John. I won't be upset.'

'It's not my turn in the kitchen', he insists. 'We must share the kitchen or I might ruin your scientific experiments.'

'Good point, but—' Sherlock shakes his head before he falls into that trap. 'I mean, when's your turn, John?'

'From 5.30 till 6 in the morning weekdays, and Tuesdays at 10am', the doctor dutifully answers in a mechanic voice. 'We must share the flat, that's what flatmates do.'

'John, could you use the kitchen now?'

He looks up, confused. 'I'm allowed?'

Sherlock feels an absurd urge you strangle himself in a parallel universe, time-and-space paradoxes be damned.

'It'd be my privilege, John.'

'Gee, thanks! Does your John know how lucky he is?'

A smiling blond rushes to the kitchen in childish delight at the prospect of tea.

'There are biscuits on the upper shelf, John!'

'Gee, he's so lucky!'

.

TBC