A/N: A while back someone asked me why I didn't write these in my first language. My answer was, this is what I was introduced to. The characters talked in English and lived in London, both in the show and in the original short stories of ACD I read some years prior. The characters drive the plot, not this "writer".

Feel free to blame on me any grammatical mistakes, though. Mycroft, in particular, would not be amused. Lestrade's may be on purpose, he's got that downbeat New York copper vibe to him, ya need'im streetwise.

Sherlock and John tend to blend each other's influences, the longer they are stuck together in a room. In an argument, John will start blunt, economic, short sentences pounding off the walls, like a military parade. Sherlock will retort with clever, long-winded retorts, strung along like angry, dramatic operettas. They will glare daggers at each other, until one of them perceives how utterly ridiculous they probably are, and cracks a joke. The smirks become insidious. The rhythm of their words is placated, arguments become longer, plaintiff, seeking common ground. Their moods cool and coalesce together. Honest, it's like old married couples.

Can't quite imagine this in a different language than in the one I got exposed to, though. It takes better writers than me for that. -csf


VII.

I blink groggily, as I come to abruptly. My head is heavy and my body nearly unresponsive with the damned painkillers flooding my system, so I just keep still in the darkness of the bedroom, and listen and watch through half-lidded eyes to what startled me awake; the iminent presentment of danger.

Metal clanking footsteps over on the fire escape ladder. Two sets of footsteps, mostly covering ground in tandem, so a team of intruders. No, I must secure the perimeter, I have to. Sherlock...

Reaching out for my service gun, a handy combat knife, the alarm clock, or anything that can double as a weapon, my fingers trace the warm, smooth surface of a delicately veneered object. What the heck?

Sherlock's violin. Why would he leave it here?

There's also the crinkling of paper – a note – but I can't read it in the dark, so it will have to wait.

.

'John!'

I honestly don't see why Sherlock would be so inconsiderately surprised upon rushing up to the flat and finding me pointing my faithful gun at a man that looks just like him, tied up with thick ropes to one of the mismatched kitchen chairs.

I glance over at the new arrival and narrow my eyes at him. 'Take the other chair. I haven't made up my mind about you yet', I declare sharply, squinting at who really, really looks like my run-of-the-mill flatmate and the real deal.

There are angry pounds against the bathroom door. Who I think is Sherlock completely ignores my command and glances at the locked bathroom door with – is that admiration?

Yeah, I locked the other John in there. Didn't tie him up; experience taught me that Sherlock is the one to look out for with the vanishing acts.

'I told you to sit down too', I demand.

He waves me off. 'Don't bother repeating yourself. I ignored you just fine the first time round.' Then he scans me with one if those deep piercing gazes. 'How's the shoulder?'

'You know about my shoulder? Then you're my Sherlock', I gasp, lowering somewhat the gun I was holding up.

He snaps his full attention back to me. 'Of course', he says, surprisingly quiet.

I feel utterly embarrassed. 'I thought you might be yet another Sherlock. We're already well on our way to hosting a cosplay convention here. I mean, the more the merrier? Caught one trying to sneak into our flat by the emergency escape.' I glare at the scowling Sherlock bound to the chair.

'John, you were supposed to be resting.'

'You're blaming me? No one's letting me rest!' I protest, incredulous.

Sherlock inches closer, I take a step back to better include him in the aim of the gun. My back hits the worktop, cornering me. His grey eyes narrow. 'Of course, you've been ruthlessly awoken by a perimeter breech, instinct kicked in, but now you're slow on the uptake given your brain is foggy with the meds I had you take. You're having difficulty processing the goings-on. I trust that empty chair will do?' Meekly but still an overbearing presence, the latest guest sits down by the edge of the table. 'Impressive work, by the way, John', he adds.

I shiver, feeling the kitchen to be very cold. I go shut the window; it will do just as well in case other Sherlocks are on their way, anyway.

'How did you know it wasn't me coming up, John?'

I squint at the newcomer. 'I'm not settled on you yet.'

'I'm not deceiving you, John. Well, not tonight anyway', he adds awkwardly.

It does sound like my flatmate. I suppose I could answer. He's sitting down for me and all.

'The intruders' steps were all wrong. One set dragging, the other pounding the metal structure of the fire escape we were forced to add after too many of Sherlock's failed nitro-glycerine experiments.' I glare pointedly to the both of them.

The tied up Sherlock looks away, indignant. 'Can't pin that one on me, I wasn't even here.'

The other Sherlock still tries to prove he's the real deal:

'Lestrade argued it wasn't safe, as another entrance point to 221B, we argued it hardly matters, as we keep the front door unlocked for prospective clients all day long.'

Sherlock Holmes is no stranger to incoming danger, and perhaps we like it that way. We can handle what harm may come through the doors, the windows, the stairwell, the fire escape – and once the chimney on a Christmas eve (no, that time it was a smoke screen bomb).

'You could have deduced that', I accuse, shaking my head, trying to dispel the piercing headache the overhead lamplight is giving me.

Recent Sherlock inches forward in his chair. 'John, those trust issues are flaring up at the wrong time... If you don't trust me, just get John out and have him identify us. He always knows, he's met several of us by now.'

'No! Not until I know why did they come up. I can't think like this! Why did I take the damned painkillers?' I scrub my eyes harshly with the heel of my hand. No, silly, I'm using the butt of my gun, wrong hand, I need to point it at – or maybe I should just shoot and ask questions later. Shoot? I'm not shooting Sherlock, am I?

'John, sit down, you're about to keel over', my flatmate insists.

'Hey, I'm not sure who you think you are—'

'We can discuss that later', he dismisses easily, manhandling me to the chair he was just now occupying.

The kitchen sways like a maritime vessel in stormy waters. I grunt and nestle my head over my arms on the table, my forehead pressed blissfully against the gun's cold metal. Even with my eyes closed the world sways in looping tides.

.

Sherlock looks over the poor doctor, nearly collapsed over the kitchen table. His features are drawn by pain markers, both from his old shoulder damage and the mental anguish of too many vaudevillian revelations on the bad sitcom this has become their flat tonight.

The imperious detective gets up, controlled and steaming in deep set anger. Double checking the sturdy knots on the ropes binding his other one-seventh, he clearly relays: 'Stay here. I need to talk to your John.'

'When can I take him home?'

'Soon.'

The visitor nods sharply.

'Go on. I'll keep an eye on your John for you.'

'Stay. We never leave John.'

'I thought you just did, when you went to Mrs Hudson's backyard.'

'I'm not perfect, and neither are you!'

Sherlock studiously avoids glancing at his flatmate as he makes his way to the confined traveller. He knocks politely on the door separating them.

'It's occupied!' is the daring response from the inside. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'I'd stop trying to unscrew the bolts on the vent with a 2p coin, you'll find you can't squeeze through there, there's a sharp bent ahead.'

John curses. Then he slowly drags his feet to the door and opens it. 'What now? You were meant to be rescuing me. I got kidnapped right in front of you. Some hero you are!'

The detective reminds himself of his life call, and tries to not raise to petty provocation.

'Now I have both parties in my flat, I want to understand their situation.'

John scratches his elbow and looks down. 'Come on in and close the door. I don't want him hearing us.'

Sherlock obeys without question. He enters the smallish bathroom and immediately starts pacing the minute bath rug the tub in sharp, violent turns. John sits uncomfortably on the closed lid of the toilet seat.

'Let me get this straight, John. You've been outcasted from your reality by your flatmate. You've been reality couch surfing for a good while now. You have met several alternative Sherlocks and Johns. What you really want is to go back home. You think the incredible sorcerer Sherlock who banished you from home is now presently kidnapping you, although you can't tell me if he's trying to get you back or trying to kill you. Am I wrong in any way?'

The stroppy John in a borrowed John-jacket grits the reminder through a locked jaw: 'I never called him a sorcerer.'

'You're still not telling me something.'

'What do you mean?' John looks up in wide blue eyes.

'I think you stole the portal, or in the least the codes. That's why you can't navigate the silly recycle bin home. You don't fully understand how to operate portals. That's why he managed to get here just fine, using another portal – or the same one.'

'For a guy who nearly has royalties coming to him from every time someone uses of the word "deduction", you really do a lot of logic jumps. That's "inference", by the way. My Sherlock taught me that.'

'Was I wrong?'

'No...' John begrudgingly admits.

'That's being an idiot, by the way, my John taught me that.' And Sherlock grins. John tries to bite down his answering smile.

'Alright, one last question, of the utmost importance, John.'

'Mate, you couldn't do "one last question" even if it killed you!'

'Tell me, John, in my kitchen, is that your Sherlock or the evil Sherlock in the fourth parallel universe you visited?'

The blond man looks peeved. 'You'd have known if it had been your evil twin. When he walks into a room the temperature drops several degrees, you get an evil chill down your spine and you feel all wrong inside. No, that's my Sherlock alright. He's having a bit if a strop, that's all. Now will you set me free?' he asks hopefully. 'Your John is a bit of a bully, isn't he?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'My John is a hero. I'll be back in no time to set you free. There's a mirror over the lavatory. Go study it, maybe if you look at your shared reflection you can learn something from John.'

.

'How is he?' I hear my flatmate ask, from my cocoon of cotton shirt sleeves. I've got a killer migraine, that I got for trying to fight the chemicals in me.

'Heavily disoriented', I hear the alternative Sherlock answer. He huffs, without half the sentiment it usually carries. 'It wasn't my intention.' There's constriction in the familiar voice; it's as close to an apology as I'll ever get. 'Is he one of the soldier Johns, then? Bullet to the shoulder?'

'Yes. Seen it before?'

'Too many times.'

'Hmm. And the remaining Johns?'

'Doctors. Writers. One was a groupie while we were a musician on tour.'

'Orchestra?'

'Some sort of popular music with a record label company and extravagant dark clothes and an excess of makeup, I'm not sure. I didn't stick around. I was looking for John, my own John, and the codes he took from me in order to navigate the portal.'

'You followed your John here.'

'Through several alternative lives we could have lived, yes. John may have lingered in those, but I was fairly quick passing through, after the delay of having to build another portal with minimal quantic stability. Without the codes all I could do was to follow the quantic dust of my assistant's trips. I was condemned to follow him through eternities if I lingered in any reality along the way. I powered through instead, trying to make up for the lost time, and now I found you. When I saw your assistant just a few hours ago, I really thought he was mine. He looked well. I felt confident. But then I turned around and I saw the kettle. It couldn't have been my John. My John isn't allowed to make tea unsupervised.'

'That's immeasurably mean to John Watson.'

'He burnt down the kitchen!' the guest Sherlock spats. 'Nearly perished in the fire, if I hadn't dragged him out— I need to keep him safe, Sherlock! I'm a possessive man and I'll make sure he's under constant watch if I'm to keep him safe!'

I groan under my breath and open bleary eyes to the scene where the two Sherlocks in the kitchen are having a silent, surly standoff.

'He says you banished him from his time and space conformity.' The home team detective is the first to talk again.

'Yeah, but not by violence or preponderance. We wouldn't do that. I tied him down to a banal life as my assistant. I was studying portals like the one we found and we're utilising now. He wanted to use the portal to explore the infinite possibilities, I kept asking him if he'd just go to bed and forget about it. I wanted to be cautious, I didn't realise he could never be satisfied with a methodical, scientific approach, changing one variable at a time. He is naturally inquisitive, I was afraid of losing him.'

'So you want your John back. And the portal codes.'

'Only John knows the actual codes.'

'He says he doesn't.'

'Oh, no, he's got them figured out. John's much cleverer than people ordinarily give him credit. He made sense of the portal. I studied it a while, but he was even more fascinated. He understood that gibberish imposed on the laws of physics, took over my notes and amplified them. Naturally, when he took the pocket book with him on his departure, I had to take up the mystery again, working by means of my incredible eidetic memory alone. Flashes of John brooding over pages of algorithms and theorems, that amounted to the navigational codes for the portal. I was figuring out the codes today when your assistant caught onto me.'

He and I exchange looks. My sight a bit blurry, his grey eyes grave and insistent. I don't get it. And why is he making me have to think about this. Not now, please. Maybe his John is just cleverer than I am. We're all different, if alike.

Suddenly my Sherlock notices, rising suddenly from his chair. 'John!' Not me. 'Your John', he clarifies to his twin, 'I can't hear him.'

The two Sherlocks rush forth in tandem – hey, how did New Sherlock break loose from his bindings, and why did he stay once he got himself free? Once they reach the bathroom and push the door wide open they both curse freely.

Yeah, the second door's lock got picked. The door leads to the bedroom, and the bedroom to the bedroom window with the fire escape just outside. All empty. I hope second Sherlock did a good job of hiding that traveller's portal bin. I need a few hours rest, I decide, careless, as I let my head sag back onto my arms and close my eyes to the commotion in the flat.

Let them handle this. They are two of the worlds greatest minds, what could possibly go wrong?

.

TBC