Adventures In Time

by carelesspeaches

Summary:

John looked between the two Sherlocks.

“Ah.” The second Sherlock said gravely, looking between John and Sherlock. “This isn’t good.”

It was safe to say that this was not good.

Notes:

OK, this is BASICALLY a love letter to a ton of different fan fic writers, creators and versions of Sherlock and John.

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes walked into their living room at four minutes past eleven on a bitterly cold Tuesday evening.

This, in itself, was not that odd.

Sherlock looked slightly dishevelled, brushing a damp curl from his forehead as he dragged a hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to tame it. He blinked at John who was perched in the chair, open-mouthed.

“John.” He croaked, stumbling towards him, his eyes huge and desperate.

Up until this very second, he appeared not to have noticed Sherlock, who was perched in the other armchair, tea cup frozen by his mouth.

John looked between the two Sherlocks.

“Ah.” The second Sherlock said gravely, looking between John and Sherlock. “This isn’t good.”

There were two of them.

It was safe to say that this was not good.

---

“Twins?” John said decisively, placing his cup of tea down on the table and turning towards his Sherlock.

“It’s never twins,” Sherlock sighed, waving his hand dismissively, rising to his feet.

The second Sherlock blinked at both of them. Now that John looked at him properly it was clear that they weren’t, in fact, twins. He was slightly older. There was something more wild about him than John’s Sherlock. New Sherlock smiled ruefully at John before his face turned serious.

“Something went wrong. I think- I just need to figure out-” The second Sherlock glanced around the room for a moment and then waved a hand in John’s direction. John looked between him and his Sherlock.

“Pen?” Second Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently.

John passed him a pen. Because clearly serving any Sherlock Holmes was all John knew how to do.

“Trevor.” John’s Sherlock said slowly before his face broke out into a grin.

“Oh good, you’re not as slow as you look.” The new Sherlock replied impatiently. “We’ve been experimenting with time travel, but-”

“You split time. Creating a multitude of timelines and options.” John’s Sherlock finished, springing out of the armchair. “Interesting.”

“Uh- a bit terrifying,” John said slowly.

“A little.” New Sherlock said softly and smiled warmly at John, placing the pen back into John's hand. The look was so unfamiliar and so unlike Sherlock that John quite literally shook his head in disbelief. 

“We need to go see Trevor.” New Sherlock said decisively, he looked towards Sherlock. “Which means you’ll have to call-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft.” He hissed.

John supposed that in every universe, Sherlock hated Mycroft.

---

Mycroft had taken things rather well.

He’d leaned his umbrella against the front door of 221B Baker Street, carefully surveyed both Sherlocks and laughed.

“Oh dear, little brother.” He huffed, approaching the second Sherlock and studying him with interest. “What have we gotten ourselves into now.”

“Trevor, please. Mycroft.” The second Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“This one has more manners, I think I prefer him,” Mycroft said lightly. But he pulled out his phone all the same and within twenty minutes a woman with neatly cropped blonde hair stepped through the door of 221B Baker Street. Flanked by one of Mycroft's men, dressed in a plain black suit, she padded up the stairs and paused.

“Ah.” She said, looking between the two Sherlock’s.

“Indeed.” The second Sherlock said.

“Uh,” John looked between them, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Does anyone want tea?”

John dutifully made tea while the two Sherlock’s, Victoria Trevor and Mycroft all mumbled in hushed tones. Pawing through papers and notebooks as they gesticulated dramatically.

“The research is in such early stages though.” Victoria sighed. “How did I even get it off the ground in your timeline?”

The second Sherlock glanced witheringly at Mycroft.

“You had external funding.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I can assure you, that in this timeline we have no plans to disrupt the fragile continuum that is linear time.”

John passed his Sherlock a tea and slumped next to him on the sofa. 

“Well, you disrupted it in mine.” Second Sherlock sulked, pacing the room as Mycroft glanced back down at the notebook, his eyes flicking over the pages. "And a little disruption has never stopped you before, brother mine." 

Second Sherlock was pouting, his eyes narrowed as he flung himself into a chair.

John’s Sherlock looked at John, clearly horrified. “I don’t look like that do I?”

“Like a giant toddler?” John grinned. “Yes. You absolutely do.”

“Why did I fund it?” Mycroft replied, his gaze narrowing in on new Sherlock who had picked up John's Sherlock's cup of tea and commandeered it, sipping slowly and avoiding Mycroft's steady gaze.

“Oh, why do you do anything?” New Sherlock said waving his hand dismissively.

John's Sherlock beamed, clearly pleased to note that all versions of Sherlock could find a way to irritate Mycroft. Mycroft, however, was focused again on a piece of paper. He glanced up, narrowing his eyes at new Sherlock.

“A word, please,” Mycroft muttered, his voice low.

John watched with interest as new Sherlock and Mycroft disappeared out of the living room, speaking in hushed tones. 

“What do you think that’s about?” John whispered to Sherlock, but he had seemingly retreated to his own brain, his fingers steepled under his chin.

“Sherlock?” John pressed, reaching out to touch Sherlock's arm, but he'd dropped to his hands and knees and was now scrabbling through the pile of papers with his usual mania. 

John sighed, turning his attention back to the front door as Mycroft and the second Sherlock returned. John was no Holmes, but even he could see that Mycroft was looking slightly paler than usual. John glanced at his phone, it was past three in the morning and John could feel the weight of exhaustion begin to set in.

“Right, Doctor Trevor. I can escort you to your new lab.” Mycroft said, straightening his suit and ambling towards the door.

New Sherlock flopped onto the sofa. John blinked as Trevor gathered her things and went to follow Mycroft. His Sherlock remained on the ground looking through the papers.

“Uh- Aren’t you forgetting something?” John gestured in the direction of new Sherlock.

“No.” Mycroft offered John a withering smile. “We’ll be back for you all in the morning,”

“Where will he sleep-” John asked, but the second Sherlock was already curled up in a ball on the sofa. “Right. He’ll sleep there I suppose.”

John rolled his eyes and reached over for the tartan throw that resided on the back of the sofa. He laid it over now sleeping second Sherlock. John stood softly meeting the gaze of his own Sherlock who had paused his frantic paper search and was now looking at John with something like annoyance. He rose to his feet, arms out ready to wake the sleeping second Sherlock Holmes.

“Not a chance,” John said, batting Sherlock’s arms back. “I know you without sleep. No matter what universe you come from.”

“I was going to discuss some theories about ash with him.” He said mournfully glancing at the sleeping form of the second Sherlock.

John thought it was best that new Sherlock was asleep.

Although, he was still Sherlock. He probably loved ash.

“Bed,” John said firmly, steering Sherlock towards the bathroom as he continued to mutter about ash.

John supposed that he should be more unnerved by the evening's events. He should be panicking that another version of his best friend has (quite possibly) ripped apart the entire universe. But strangely, he felt relatively calm. It was Sherlock. And that meant that life would always be a little odd.

John inhaled deeply and tugged the duvet up to his ears. It would be fine in the morning.

He exhaled slowly and barely even registered that he was falling asleep.

The noise that awoke John was a creak at the door. Batting away the thought of gunfire, John jerked with surprise to find Sherlock looming in the door.

Sherlock stood illuminated by the streetlights that had flooded the cheap blinds that John had hung. Sherlock, tousled and sleepy, stared at John, saying nothing, his large hands balled into the sleeves of his dressing gown.

“Sherlock, what the fuck are you doing?” John hissed.

John blinked at Sherlock who continued to stare in silence, then he turned his heel and left with a small huff.

John rolled his eyes and went back to sleep. Yes, life would always be a little odd with Sherlock. 

The next time John awoke it was to the familiar sound of Mycroft and Sherlock arguing. John hauled himself out of bed and into the kitchen. John flicked on the kettle and registered with surprise that he could tell by looks alone that this was the new Sherlock who was hissing at Mycroft. He poured himself a scalding cup of coffee, aware that, unlike the Holmes brothers, he struggled to function on four hours of sleep. 

“Tea?” John offered, glancing between the two of them.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice low. “I need to be clear, as perhaps I wasn’t yesterday.”

“Oh Mycroft, do stop talking.” John’s Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen in his dressing gown. “You’re giving us all a headache.”

“Sherlock-” Mycroft started and both Sherlock's snapped their vision in his direction. The same withering expression on both of their faces.

“Oh for- OK,” John said, plucking the only other clean mug from the cupboard. “New Sherlock, you’re now Holmes. Sherlock, you’re- well, you’re still Sherlock.”

Both Sherlock’s shrugged, unusually agreeable and John refilled the kettle. "Right, who's having a brew?"

John dutifully made everyone tea and discovered a half-eaten packet of digestives at the back of the cupboard. He noticed that Holmes nibbled delicately at the side of the biscuit, while his own Sherlock ate without abandon. Maybe Holmes didn't like biscuits? But he did thank John so profusely that John felt ridiculous thinking he was anything like his own Sherlock. 

Finally, at nine-thirty, with only a few comments about Mycroft's weight (from both Sherlocks), they all piled into Mycroft’s black car. Aside from the classical music that Mycroft's driver kept on a low volume, the journey was only punctuated by brief arguments about ash.

---

Trevor bit her nails.

John did not think this was a good sign.

“I’m not actually sure if it’ll work.” She said carefully glancing between the two Sherlock’s.

“It’ll work,” Holmes said, glancing over the machine that had clearly been rapidly assembled. He flicked through a few of Trevor’s documents, glancing between them and the machine, occasionally jabbing at the screen. 

“Looks like something out of Star Trek,” John muttered, eying the large machine.

“Doesn’t it just.” Holmes grinned in return to John, his eyes playful. 

Sherlock blinked, clearly realising that Holmes knew something he didn’t. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Star what?”

“Do you not watch it?” Holmes asked, his face breaking into a smile. “John you must show him Star Trek. We love it.”

For a moment, John imagined his own Sherlock discovering Star Trek and wondered where exactly Holmes started and his own Sherlock began. Presumably, somewhere out there was another John, a John that sat with his own Sherlock and watched Star Trek.  

“As touching as this is-” Mycroft gestured towards the machine and Holmes stepped towards it. He paused and then turned on his heel sharply, wrapping his arms around John.

John felt Holmes bury his face into John’s neck, inhaling slowly. Holmes’ hair pressed into his neck, his hands balling in John’s hair, fingers padding at the soft skin behind his ears. John unsure of what else to do wrapped his arms around Holmes who continued to cling to John.

Clearly, this Sherlock was a lot more tactile.

His own Sherlock and Mycroft watched in mild horror as Holmes seemed to remember where he was.

“Goodbye, John,” Holmes whispered, stepping back, he dusted down his suit and and scrubbed at his face. “I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

John felt his brow furrow as Holmes inhaled raggedly and strode into the machine. 

Trevor chewed her nails but nodded and pressed a few buttons. It whirred into life, slowly and just before the beam of light began, John heard Trevor mutter the word fuck.

Holmes disappeared as Trevor furiously jabbed at the machine. 

“Right, what’s plan B?” Trevor said cautiously.

Mycroft dropped his face into his hands and groaned.

Chapter 2

“What do you mean he’s in the wrong timeline? We’ve just got him out of the wrong timeline.” John growled, his confusion morphing, as it so often did, into frustration.

“And into another incorrect timeline.” Sherlock finished for him, looking, as usual, unbothered by the whole affair. 

John bit down on his cheeks, attempting to temper the rising irritation. 

“OK, so just flash him back,” John snapped, looking between Trevor and Mycroft, who were scanning pages of notes.

“We can’t guarantee that he has access to everything he needs to get back,” Victoria said cautiously. Mycroft rolled his eyes as he turned the page of whatever line of mathematical code he was reading.

“Can you make it remote?” Mycroft asked her through gritted teeth.

“Yes, but-”

“I know, I’ll obviously need to make some arrangements,” Mycroft muttered.

John felt the beginnings of a headache as he tried to keep up with the conversation.

“I’ll contact MI5.” Mycroft sighed. "An agent can go and get-"

“He won’t go with you, the agent you send,” Sherlock said from the chair he’d somehow found and curled up in. Neither of them had slept in hours and John felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on every nerve. God, his eyes actually ached. 

“Sorry?” Trevor asked, glancing between Mycroft and Sherlock.

“I know myself. And I don’t trust him.” Sherlock nodded towards Mycroft, who glared in return. “I’ll go.”

“This isn’t one of your little cases, Sherlock. This is time itself, one wrong-” Mycroft sighed impatiently.

“Oh, what am I going to do? Murder you?” Sherlocked waved his hand dismissively and then beamed. “Actually, I think I’m warming to the idea.”

“I’ll go with him.” John sighed because he was always going to go with Sherlock.

Mycroft, Trevor and Sherlock blinked at him. John pulled himself up to his full height and reminded himself that he was once Captain John Watson. 

“Well, you’re saying that Holmes doesn’t trust Mycroft and you’re saying Sherlock will mess up the timeline. I’ll go with Sherlock so he doesn’t ruin- time?" John gestured in the direction of the machine. "Let's be honest, Mycroft. The only person who can convince Sherlock to do something he doesn’t want to do, is Sherlock." 

Mycroft’s frown deepened. But Sherlock beamed at John appreciatively. 

“Sorted,” John said and walked towards the machine, trying to project more confidence than he felt. “Right, let’s do this. Turn this thing on.”

“There’s just one problem.” Victoria chewed her nails. “I’m not sure exactly where we sent him.”

John discovered that time, like everything, was fickle. And while they’d narrowed it to a list, they couldn’t figure out which timeline he’d actually ended up in. But after four hours of gruelling research later, she’d managed to find a way to make it work.

Armed with a remote, Sherlock and John would be sent to each timeline for a few hours. They’d find Holmes, get him to hold the weird light thing that Mycroft had handed them and Holmes would be popped back into the correct timeline. Hopefully, allowing John to get three hours of sleep. 

Simple.

John glanced at Trevor who still looked nervous. “I don’t know if we can send two- that’s all-”

“It’ll work,” Sherlock said grimly, scanning through the notes again. 

“What happens if we just leave him?” John asked Sherlock continued to pace, his fingers drumming against the paper. “Let him find another Trevor and Mycroft and sort himself out?”

“Not good,” Sherlock muttered. Mycroft rolled his eyes icily. At least that was settled.

Sherlock and John stepped into the machine.

“I’m still not sure it’ll-” Victoria said and Sherlock jabbed at the button.

John braced himself for whatever was going to happen and then he felt the fall. It was the same feeling he had when he’d jumped out of an aeroplane back in Afghanistan. The ground lurching away from his feet, the pull of gravity, plummeting towards the ground. The feeling of weightlessness and force and then- nothing. 

John blinked. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The teenager looked up at him from a single bed. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, he glanced around the room. “Where’s John?”

John realised he was in a school dormitory. He blinked at the teenager who was extremely familiar.

“Sherlock?” John asked slowly.

Teenage Sherlock rolled his eyes, climbing out of bed in a matching set of striped pyjamas that looked slightly too big for him. “No, that’s my name. This is the part where you say yours.”

Sherlock was still all limbs, tufts of curls sticking up at odd angles and John felt a small part of him wanting to reach out and wrap his arms around the small sullen version of Sherlock who stood tapping his feet impatiently. 

“Right,” John said slowly. “What are you- Uh, you’re looking for John? John Watson?”

“Ah. You’re John Watson, aren’t you?” Sherlock said carefully. He snorted several things at once, clearly falling into place. “I’m fifteen and even I know that you shouldn’t mess with time.”

“Right. Well, I-we didn’t.” John muttered. “Another- you- did.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock sighed. “Well, where’s my John?”

“What does he look like?” John asked and upon seeing Sherlock’s face felt incredibly stupid.

“Oh. You’re an idiot too.” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “Thank god my John isn’t.”

“Is he fifteen as well- or?”

“No, he’s a forty-four-year-old Etonian,” Sherlock said dryly, a familiar withering expression crossing his face. “The divs thought it a marvellous idea for us to share a room. He does look a little odd in his school tie though.”

“What-” John scrubbed his face. How long had it actually been since he'd slept? 

“God, of course, he’s fifteen, well sixteen.” Sherlock gestured around the room. “And he was asleep, right here, until you got here.”

John looked around the room. Two old, wooden single beds on either side, with an arch window in between. Sherlock’s bed looked like chaos personified, piles of papers and something that looked to be growing mould. He turned to what was clearly John’s - no, his side of the room. Sweeping his eyes over a neatly made with hospital corners and a few rugby trophies, John smiled to himself. In one universe, he went to Eton, he'd have to tell Sherlock. Actually, that's a point. 

“Did you see another Sherlock?” John asked glancing around the room again. 

“Not as of yet.” Sherlock rested his chin on his knees and sighed. “But, I imagine he’s with my John.”

“Right. Well. I’ll be gone soon and then I imagine your John will return.” John said slowly, hoping that this was the case. He pulled the remote out of his pocket and jabbed at it hopelessly. Nothing.

“You’d better be right,” Sherlock muttered darkly, before snapping his gaze to John with interest. “Do I get taller in the future?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

Mycroft had muttered a few choice instructions to them earlier about not discussing their timeline, but John couldn’t see how getting taller would hurt.

“Yes,” John said, looking at the bed on the other side of the room. He was exhausted. “What time is it?”

“Half two in the morning,” Sherlock said, flinging open the wardrobe for his slippers. “OK, describe the machine as specifically as you can and I’ll start looking at some options.”

John ran a hand through his hair at the impatient teenager who was looking at him expectantly. God, that bed looked comfortable. He could sleep for an hour and then sort all of this out.

“Wait-” John looked at the neatly made bed and back to Sherlock. “If it was half two in the morning, how did you know-”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. “Are we not married by now?”

John dropped his head into his hands. Clearly, things were a bit different in this timeline.

“Uh- no,” John said, looking wistfully at the single bed. “I know it’s weird, but do you mind if I sleep here?”

Sherlock shrugged easily. “Fine by me. You should probably lock the door though. I’m not sure if everyone would believe that you’ve travelled through time.” 

Christ. The fifteen-year-old was making more sense than he was. 

Sherlock grinned in a way that was far too familiar.

“Jesus Christ,” John mumbled as he climbed into the single bed fully clothed. He drifted to sleep listening to the sound of Sherlock - or a version of him - furiously scribbling into a notebook.

The next morning, he awoke, immediately feeling out of sorts. He was in a single bed, in a small dormitory room. Most alarmingly teenage Sherlock was watching him resentfully. With horror, most of the night before returned to him. How was he still here? Trevor had been vague but she’d said a few hours.

“I brought you toast,” Sherlock thrust a plate in John’s direction. “Also, I’ve said I’m poorly. Lestrade will probably come and check and when he does, you’ll have to hide.”

“Right,” John said, still trying to get his head around this timeline. “Wait, Lestrade?”

“Div Master. Incredibly irritating.” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively in a gesture that was so familiar John felt a rush of warmth. “Anyway, I’ll probably get a chore for all of this.” He said with a sigh, flopping back onto his own bed. “But, I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

John blinked. He knew around twenty percent of the words that Sherlock used. Bloody stupid Etonians with their stupid words. 

“Because now, I can ask you about the future.” Sherlock beamed.

“I don’t think I can tell you much about that,” John said slowly. He pulled the remote and hopelessly jabbed at it again. Nothing. “Thanks for the toast.” John nibbled at the edge of the crust, wondering how his own Sherlock was getting on.

Hopefully a lot better than him.

---

Sherlock felt a rush of wind and then a thud. It was the same feeling that he got when he injected. The rush. The drop.

He blinked, taking in his surroundings. He was back at Baker Street, the fire crackling softly, but something was different. His laptop was missing. He patted down his pockets and scrabbled for his phone. Gone. Fine. OK. The remote, he found that, no problem. No sign of any other Sherlock though.

He rose from the chair, shedding his coat and scarf, the room was slightly too warm. 

“I say, whatever has happened to your hair, Holmes?”

John.

Sort of.

OK. This meant Sherlock’s John was somewhere else. If there was a John here, logically, his own wasn’t.

Sherlock glanced over at the man who looked and sounded like John, but so clearly wasn’t. He was leaning against a cane, a thick moustache over his lips. Christ, the moustache looked awful. Sherlock ran his eyes over John, noting the pocket watch that dangled out of his suit jacket. Gift from his father. No. Wrong. John's father is dead. And John didn't wear suits. His hair was slicked back, giving him a more severe appearance. Macassar Oil. Why would John use Macassar Oil?

“By heavens, Holmes," John said, leaning against the doorframe, raising his eyebrows. "If I didn’t know you so well, I’d believe you to have just awoken.”

“John,” Sherlock said clearing his throat. 

Need more data. 

“Everything alright, Holmes?” John looked slightly off-kilter. Something had thrown him off. Hmm. Not right. Mustn’t arouse suspicion. Clearly different time period. Victorian, judging by the tiles and how recently they were installed. Sherlock inhaled sharply, surnames. That’s how they addressed each other.

“All is well, thank you, Watson,” Sherlock replied evenly. 

John visibly relaxed. “Well, get that awful disguise off. We have a client.”

Disguise? Sherlock looked down at his plain white shirt and navy trousers. Right. Clearly, this was not what Holmes wore. Sherlock padded down the corridor of 221B Baker Street in search of Victorian attire, discovering that it looked remarkably similar to his own flat. He scanned a battered old wardrobe and- Bingo. Suits. 

After changing into quite possibly the most uncomfortable suit he’d ever worn, Sherlock stomped back to the living room. He felt the reassuring press of the remote in his pocket. Sherlock had also scraped his hair back with the wax he’d discovered in the bathroom. While the sticky texture set his teeth on edge, John appeared reassured. And nodded with a smile as Sherlock sank into the stiff leather armchair. Was everything less comfortable in Victorian times? 

Focus stop thinking about comfort.

Think about the client and then how to leave. 

Watson passed him a pipe. Sherlock supposed it would be rude not to and took a gulp of dark, tobacco air. It tasted bloody awful and Sherlock had to inhale sharply to stop the cough threatening his chest. God he missed cigarettes. 

"Ah, here's our guest," Watson gestured to the door, settling into the chair next to Sherlock.

Their client arrived with a clatter. A small man with a ruddy complexion who droned on about his missing wife and Sherlock managed to nod in all of the right places.

“Your wife left because of the affair you had with your neighbour,” Sherlock concluded.

“Excellent!” John exclaimed and Sherlock smiled softly. Even here, this John was complimentary. The client, however, did not seem so pleased.

“Sir, I have been told that you are a man of good standing-”

“Whoever told you that, lied.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and Watson looked at him curiously.

“Sir- I beg you, I need you to find my wife.” He snapped.

“I believe she doesn’t want to be found,” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes narrowing at the man. He was bigger. But he was slow, a poor fighter, heavy drinker. He’d be dead in a year, Sherlock could take him if he needed to. 

The man stormed out. Probably for the best.

“Are you quite sure you’re yourself today, Holmes?” John asked, his brow furrowing.

“Quite. Watson, have you been here all day?”

“Yes, of course.” John looked at him oddly. “Why do you ask?”

Well, there was no subtle way of asking this, was there?

“And you haven’t seen anyone else. Anyone who- looks similar to myself?” Sherlock kept his voice light.

John’s brow creased, then relaxed. “Ah. The seven percent. You know, Holmes. Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change, and may at last leave a permanent weakness.”

Drugs. A very John-like guess.

“Remember, I am a man of medicine,” John said, his voice low and serious as he turned to meet Sherlock’s gaze. There was something there, careful and considered. But something familiar and determined, despite the awful moustache. John rose out of the battered armchair and scanned the room, clearly searching for Sherlock’s supply.

Then, just as John reached the fireplace, glaring at Sherlock the entire time, he felt a pulse from his pocket. The ground seemed to be falling away and just as before, there was a flash of light so bright that Sherlock couldn't see. 

Sherlock blinked, preparing to explain all of this to Trevor. He’d have to remember the part about the awful moustache. He’d enjoy telling John about that.

Sherlock scanned the dark room. This didn’t look like the lab. He tugged at his arms, feeling a heavy metal clang. He was chained. To something. Sherlock yanked hard and felt a tug in his shoulder blade. Focus. He could feel the familiar corners of the remote in his pocket. He was clearly still travelling. 

He strained his ears. There was a faint dripping of water and the sounds of someone talking softly outside of the room. Cрпски. Serbian. Oh. He was back here. Sherlock felt a rush of something close to panic.

He did know this room. He’d spent a month in here before Mycroft came for him.

Why was he not back at the lab? Why was he back in Serbia?

Sherlock yanked again at the chains, tugging harder, the metal clinking against something - a pipe. Jesus, he remembered the pipe. Sherlock heard the door open, feeling his chest tighten. It can't be the same place. It can't be. Despite the damp floor, seeping into his clothes, Sherlock felt a hot flush. He didn't want to think too much about it, but reliving his first trip to Serbia didn't feel like an option he fancied. Something was different though, Sherlock was chained to the left, rather than the middle of the room. Maybe it was unimportant, but something about it left Sherlock feeling out of sorts.

He heard a clatter at the door and had to bite his cheeks to stop the Pavlovian panic he felt at that sound.

“Zdravo strangers,” 

Military. Mid-thirties. Chain-smoker. Greasy hair, halitosis. Hair cropped so closely to his skull, that it took Sherlock a few hours to determine the colour. Sherlock didn’t need to see the man. He knew him. The same one who’d broken his collarbone the first time around. He remembered the pain from last time, despite his insistence to John that he'd deleted it. Light began to flood the room as the heavy metal door swung open.

Wait, he said strangers. Plural. 

Sherlock wasn’t alone.

Sherlock turned his head trying to spot his fellow prisoner. There was once another man they'd brought in during Sherlock's imprisonment - could it be him? The giant Romanian who talked endlessly about his wife. Sherlock tried to recall exactly what he sounded like. But as light flooded in, Sherlock could make out a figure. Too small for the Romanian. 

“Today, we start with you, small one.” The man beamed at Sherlock, who followed his gaze to where John was slumped on the floor.

John shouldn’t be here. No, he should be away with Mary. Sherlock felt a rush of panic course through every inch of his body as his stomach lurched. 

“Please,” John whispered, his voice rough.

There shouldn’t be a John here. Sherlock couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. He furiously yanked at the chains again, feeling the metal bite into his wrists. The rush of panic was rising now, he felt his stomach convulse, bile in his throat. He needed to focus on John.

Forcing himself to look at the pale form, curled up on the floor, Sherlock couldn't quite recognise him. John looked pale and thin, his ankle at a slightly unnatural angle. Think. Think, Sherlock. They must be a few weeks into their stay at least, John's wrist (broken, twice) was starting to heal. His ankle was not. 

The man raised the pipe. 

“No, hold on. He doesn't know anything.” Sherlock said, feeling the panic seep into his voice. He just needed to get his attention, to distract him. He could talk their way out of this “Listen, liste-”

“I listen enough.” The man shrugged.

He flicked the end of his cigarette in the corner of the room, tucking the pipe under his arm.

"Please, just wait-" Sherlock shouted, his voice sounding unnaturally high. 

The man smiled, drew his foot back and it was only when it landed in John’s chest, the noise of ribs breaking - a noise he would never forget, that Sherlock realised the scream that he’d just heard was his own.

Chapter 3

Summary:

A little take on Sherlock and Co.
As someone with ASD, I love ASD Sherlock. Our Sherlock deals with some sad stuff.

Notes:

THANK YOU for the comments. I started this story and I'm about six chapters in now. I haven't had this BETA-d so any mistakes are my own. I wasn't sure whether or not to carry it on, but honestly the comments have kept me going <3 thank you x

John was not back at the lab.

This was his first thought as he slowly opened his eyes.

He’d left his teenage Sherlock sulking by the corner of John’s bed.

Apparently, John hadn’t shown a suitable level of interest in the mould project Sherlock had been working on. John could only conclude that his Etonian counterpart was a far better actor than John. And he really didn’t want to think too much about why they shared a bed. It was a different universe. Different universes mean different things.

“No, Sherlock, I don’t want to touch it.” John had hissed as another petri dish had been thrust under his nose. Then, the bright light had swallowed him up, allowing John to see exactly what it looks like when Sherlock Holmes is surprised.

OK, what would Sherlock do?

Surroundings. Observe. Come on, John. It was their flat, but it looked slightly different. The skull was missing. The living room appeared tidier.

“John?”

A tall Spanish woman blinked down at him. John vaguely registered her as both attractive and unfamiliar.

“That’s not John, Mariana.” A deep voice muttered. “Who are you? And where is my John?”

John turned slowly towards the man. He wasn’t his Sherlock. But then again, John was realising that his Sherlock didn’t always look like his Sherlock. This man had Sherlock’s mop of hair, darker skin and a larger nose, he was standing, arms wrapped around himself with a familiar expression of interest and scepticism. He was wearing a set of bright blue ear defenders and as John struggled to his feet, he realised that there was something else different about this Sherlock. He just couldn’t think of what.

“Stay seated.” Sherlock sighed, slowly removing the ear defenders.

“Who is he?” The Spanish woman hissed. “John was here and now he’s-”

“Autistic,” John said softly, watching as the man placed his ear defenders on the table. Of course, he was.

“Among other things.” Sherlock shrugged. Unlike his own, this Sherlock didn’t seem to see this as either an insult or a badge of honour. That was the difference, John realised. This Sherlock seemingly understood himself better.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing yet.

“OK, this is going to sound insane-” John scrubbed at his face. “But, I’m not from this universe.”

“I agree.” Mariana turned to Sherlock, her eyes wide. “He is insane.”

“Go on.” Sherlock encourages, stepping back as John hauled himself up to his feet. Reaching out a hand, he pressed it against Mariana’s arm. John paused, Sherlock was comforting someone. It was a small gesture, but this Sherlock could comfort someone.

“Uh- Right. So, I’m not from here. I’m looking for another Sherlock. Not you. But a Sherlock that accidentally came into my universe.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Mrs Hudson, I think we’ll need a cup of tea.”

John scanned the room and his forehead wrinkled in confusion as the Spanish woman sighed.

She was Mrs Hudson?

“Tonto.” Not Mrs Hudson sighed. 

Sherlock beamed at her in response and John wished he could remember a single word in Spanish. He blinked as a chubby dog, barked lightly from the corner of the room and began to lumber towards them. Sherlock has a dog? 

Sherlock gestured to the chair. “Come on, John. I think we’ve got things to discuss.”

---

Sherlock had always assumed that there was a point of pain where one would simply pass out.

He did in Serbia.

The first time.

This time, however, his stupid body had gone into shock, adrenaline coursing through his veins, keeping his heart at an unsteady, uneven tempo.

After kicking John and breaking his rib, Sherlock's captor had reacquainted him with the pipe. A blunt metal thing (that had been, at one point, used to scaffold a church), crashing into his right arm as he immediately held it out in front of himself to protect his face. Stupid. He did that last time. 

Sherlock registered with a grim sort of awareness that it was broken, hanging limply at his side. Compound fracture. Nasty one. 

Thankfully, though, he could still feel the sharp corners of the remote in his pocket. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered into the darkness.

They hadn’t chained him up again after the pipe, correctly assuming that he would be in too much pain to pose any reasonable threat.

Sherlock crawled across the damp, cold concrete to John, who was curled up in the fetal position, sweat dripping down his face despite the temperature being around three degrees. Sherlock reached out a hand towards him, pushing John's soft, downy hair back and attempting to soothe the small whimpers he was making.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, feeling bile rise in his throat. He couldn’t be sick. If it were anything like his last stay here, water wouldn’t be coming until much later.

“Fuck you, Sherlock.” John hissed through gritted teeth.

“John-” John batted Sherlock's arm away.

“She’s dead. Because of you.” John began to sob, his chest heaving at odd angles. Punctured lung. Not good.

“You’ve punctured your lu-”

“I fucking know that.” John snapped, wheezing. “I was going to propose and now she’s dead. You were dead. You let me think you were dead.”

Sherlock felt the air seep out of his lungs. They killed Mary. They left John here.

“I know, I can explain, though.” Sherlock pleaded.

“Nothing can explain.” John hissed, Sherlock reached out again, finding it impossible not to. Needing to feel John’s face.

“I faked it, John. To protect you.” Sherlock could hear an odd guttural sob and it took him a full minute to realise that the noise was coming from his own throat. “John, I love-”

“Don’t say it,” John whispered. “People don’t do this to people they love.”

“But I-” Sherlock attempted to stretch out his arm, but realised it was the bad arm. He grunted and exhaled messily, desperate to be closer to him. “I’m not dead. I’m here.”

“You’re not fucking dead, no.” John curled inwardly, and Sherlock watched as John shuddered, trying to wrap his arms around himself. “But I wish you were.”

The metal door clanked again.

---

 

“So, we can expect our John back when?” Sherlock sighed, stretching out his legs lazily and surveying John with a familiar gaze. 

John placed his tea on the side table. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I think it was under day last time.”

“And you and your Sherlock solve crimes?” Mariana asked from the sofa where she was tapping away at her laptop, glancing up intermittently to study John. 

“Yeah, I mean we don’t do the podcast thing, but the crime stuff-” John trailed off lamely. "I blog."

Mariana raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, that’s good, because we’re late.” Sherlock rose to his feet, slipping the ear defenders back on and winding a scarf around his neck. “We were supposed to be there an hour ago.”

“Sherlock, you can’t take him to a crime scene.” Mariana levelled her gaze at Sherlock in a familiar glare that reminded him of his own Mrs Hudson.

“Why not? He might be helpful. He can be John’s cousin. Jonk.” Sherlock replied, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Sherlock had just made a fucking joke, John felt his jaw drop slightly. 

“I assume you’re still a doctor in your universe?”

“Yes, but-”

“It was a hypothetical question, John.” Sherlock sighed impatiently and flung his scarf on. “Let’s go.”

And John simply rose to his feet and followed.

---

 

The crime scene was at least familiar grounds. John wasn’t sure if there was a browbeaten Lestrade in this universe. There didn’t seem to be as the room they appeared in was missing the one thing John would call familiar.

“Where’s the murder?” John glanced around the bland, cream living room. Not only was there a distinct lack of murder but also of police. 

Sherlock looked over at John approvingly. “How do you know there was one?”

John blinked, surprised to be asked. “Uh, well. There’s blood on the wall in a spatter pattern that suggests a head injury. Too much for someone to survive and well,-” John gestured lamely towards the client - a private landlord who narrowed his eyes at John. “We were called for a murder.”

“Almost.” Sherlock nodded approvingly.

“Really?” Maybe John was better at this than his Sherlock gave him credit for.

“No,” Sherlock grinned. “But, good try.”

John sighed wearily, running a hand through his hair as Sherlock began listing all the things that were wrong with John’s analysis, studiously ignoring the increasingly angry landlord.

“And that’s why there is blood on the walls. Really, you should take better care of your tenants and maybe they’d hate you a little less.” Sherlock flung his scarf and stalked out.

At least this part was familiar as John ducked out of the door, pacing to keep up with Sherlock.

“Oh, yes. I forgot about the ‘I’m so clever’ routine.” John snorted.

Sherlock turned to him, appearing genuinely confused. "I'm not clever," He frowned. "I have a great deal of special interests. I like to hyperfocus around areas of crime, investigation, observation and deduction. That's all."

John paused, unsure of how to respond. This Sherlock was so different to his own.

“You’re very clever, Sherlock.” He settled on.

“You may think so, Watson.” Sherlock shrugged and flagged down a taxi. “It’s too loud here.”

Unlike his own, this Sherlock didn't beam with pride. He didn't seem to desire an audience or approbation. And while John found this slightly unsettling, he realised that this Sherlock was simply far more comfortable than his own. He'd never once thought of Sherlock as nervous, but as he watched this version ask for what he needed and remind John of what he didn't, his own Sherlock suddenly seemed far more anxious by comparison. 

"That's better," Sherlock said, settling into the silent taxi. 

John was beginning to realise why his own Sherlock might prefer a taxi rather than the tube.

“Have you eaten?”

“Today?” Sherlock replied, staring out of the window with disinterest. “I think so.”

What would John do with his own Sherlock in this situation? 

John leaned forward to the driver. “Can you drop us off at Angelos in Soho?”

---

“On bespolezen.” Sherlock heard the man mutter.

His accent sounded familiar, almost too clipped. Though Sherlock was finding it increasingly hard to focus. He’d finally fallen unconscious and he could have wept with joy at the sensation. He was strung up now, his useless arm had gone numb.

Another man grabbed a chunk of his hair, his breath turning Sherlock’s empty stomach. He pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s ear and Sherlock squirmed at the sensation. “Tell us what you know. Pain, will stop.”

“Ya razberus' s nim.” The other man mumbled, his tones were still too clipped. He was too wealthy for this job. 

The damp mouth was wrenched away from his ear, and Sherlock sagged with relief. Sherlock heard the man slam the door and the scent of beer was replaced by coffee and Baccarat Rouge 540.

“Ten minutes, little brother.”

“John? Where is John?” Sherlock whispered as Mycroft turned to leave.

Mycroft's face gave nothing away. 

---

“So, you like food, right?”

Sherlock looked at John like he was an idiot.

Probably because he was.

They were perched at their usual table, but this Angelo hadn't said anything. He'd simply waved them to their table and placed a candle in the centre. John watched the wax slowly drip onto the tablecloth and remembered that his own Sherlock would softly press a finger into it, allowing the hot wax to scold him. 

“Ye-es,” Sherlock said slowly, elongating every letter and raising his eyebrows.

“Good. Good. That’s good.” John said pointlessly. “So, do you have a girlfriend?” He ventured. Surely this couldn’t be his go-to line every time? But John wasn't really sure what to ask of someone who, in many ways, was more familiar than his own right hand. 

Sherlock snorted lightly. “Not really my area.”

At least that's consistent. 

“Boyfriend? Which is fine?” John blurted out.

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock tilted his head as if trying to understand something. “Ah. I’m aware you’re bisexual if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

“Me?” John said, his voice rising by an octave. "Woah." John waved his arm, knocking his fork off the table.

Sherlock watched as John scraped back his chair to collect it. 

“I like trains. Steam engines and such.” Sherlock smiled lightly. “Perhaps not in the way you’re thinking.”

Another joke? This wasn't John's Sherlock at all. 

“I have no idea what I’m thinking,” John said, scrubbing at his face. “I’m not- you know. I’m just- not.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock nodded and returned to his food. “Were you also in Iraq?”

“Uh, yeah. But bisexual. Your John is bisexual?” John pressed on. Aware that he was starting to sound a little insane.

Sherlock studied him for a second. 

“Is that a problem?” Sherlock said flatly, slowly placing his cutlery down and narrowing his eyes at John.

Clearly, this Sherlock was protective over his John.

“No, god no, no,” John blustered as Sherlock looked at him carefully. “I just wondered that was all. Because- you’re-” John trailed off.

“This conversation makes you uncomfortable. I’ve changed the subject. Was that not what you wanted?” Sherlock furrowed his brow as if trying to understand,.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. It just-” John sighed, placing his own cutlery down. “Uncomfortable is the wrong word.”

“What’s the right word?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

Confused. That was the right word.

John didn’t say it, but Sherlock clearly saw it anyway.

“Ah.” Sherlock hummed and glanced out of the window. “Do you like steam trains?”

John felt the corners of his mouth twitch as Sherlock attempted, once again, to change the subject. 

“You and your John, are you-” John asked.

“Are we, what?” Sherlock once again looked at John, his brow furrowed.

Are you in love? Do you want him? Do I want him? What does any of this mean?

“Are you two-” John shrugged helplessly.

Sherlock sighed as if he’d tried to explain nuclear physics to a five-year-old. He offered John a vaguely sympathetic look.

“Come on, John. We should go home.”

This Sherlock was wrong.

He was clever.

Just in a way that John didn’t think his Sherlock would ever understand.

Chapter 4

Summary:

House MD is on the case. Sort of.

Notes:

Would LOVE your thoughts on the new chapter

It appeared that Sherlock Holmes had fallen out of bed, landing on the floor with a thud.

He squinted around the room, eyes adjusting in the darkness. He was back in Baker Street, in his room. Sherlock slowly inhaled, rotating his arm gently. Not broken. He was back to normal. Or, at least, whatever passed for normal during time travel. He sat up slowly on the hardwood floor, feeling his chest tighten at the memory. John.

What happened to John? He’d been in the chains, Mycroft had appeared and Sherlock had left the broken John. The John who hated him.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, trying to quell the sense of panic. He needed to get back there. He slowly attempted to rise to his feet when-

“Did you fall out of the bed, Sherlock?”

John.

Sherlock exhaled raggedly, dropping onto the side of the bed. John’s face was pressed into the pillow, tousled and sleepy. He slowly turned over, eyes still shut. His John. Every inch of his face so familiar Sherlock could weep.

“Did you have the nightmare about Mycroft operating on your brain again?” John mumbled into the pillow.

Sherlock paused, frozen on the edge of the bed. He’d never told anyone about that nightmare. Ever. Not even his John.

“Come here.” John yawned, cracking one eye open. “Still early.”

Sherlock felt John’s warm, unbroken arm reach around him and tug him closer. He breathed in John’s scent, warm and slightly musty from a night’s sleep. Resting his head on John’s shoulder, he realised that John’s chest was bare. 

Sherlock blinked as John ran an easy hand through Sherlock’s mop of hair.

They share a bed here.

That’s how John knew about the nightmare.

“Stop watching me sleep, Sherlock,” John mumbled, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I wasn’t watching you-”

“Oh for-,” John tugged Sherlock closer. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?” John huffed softly, slowly opening his eyes to focus on Sherlock who, for the first time in his life, was speechless. His brain was simply static. Too much information. His skin felt on fire, but not in the way it normally does when someone touched him. It felt good. And terrifying.

John rolled over, pushing Sherlock onto his back. His strong forearms holding him up above Sherlock, he dipped, allowing their noses to press together.

"I knew you getting an early night was too good to be true," John mumbled with a sigh, his gaze moving across Sherlock's face, inspecting him. 

Sherlock, who had briefly forgotten how to breathe, deduced that John had an erection. Mostly because it was pressing into what appeared to be his own.

“Morning,” John said softly.

Before Sherlock could reply, John pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s. Soft, but firm, he sank his teeth softly into Sherlock’s bottom lip. Slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, feeling, gently searching.

At that moment, Sherlock realised that he may never have a coherent thought again.

---

“He’s alright, give him some room.”

American.

John squinted up at the ceiling. Bright lights glared down on him. A blonde woman reached out reassuringly and adjusted his IV. Hospital. John glanced around the room. Firstly it was a room. Not a ward. Everything looked new, way out of the NHS’ budget. Glass walls with a logo sprayed across them. Who has glass wards? 

“How are you feeling?” The woman asked, tapping away at her iPad.

John tried to get his bearings. “I know this sounds insane.” His voice was slightly slurred. “I’m not from this universe. I’m from a different universe.”

The woman frowned and glanced at his chart. “Can someone speak to Cuddy? I think we might need House.” She sighed wearily, turning her attention back to John. “You had a fall.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m a doctor in England.” John mumbled. 

“Maybe give him five of the midazolam.” John heard someone else say.

John pushed himself to sit up on the starchy white sheets. 

“Do not sedate me.” John snapped. “Anyway, if you were going to the dosage is ten.”

The woman blinked.

“Doctor? Remember.” John focused on the IV, he lifted his arm to inspect it. “Is this saline?”

“I’ve called House.” The nurse said quietly.

“Who the fuck is House?” John snapped.

---

“Are you OK?” John mumbled into Sherlock’s mouth.

No.

Yes.

Sherlock had no idea what he was anymore. He was both the best he’d ever felt and quite possibly the most out of his depth he’d ever been.

John had pulled back, surveying Sherlock with a lopsided grin.

“You’re still thinking about the nightmare?” John said with a soft huff, running a hand softly through Sherlock’s hair. “Let me take your mind off it.” John rolled his eyes good-naturedly as if they did this every day.

Maybe they did?

John pressed against Sherlock with his erection, directly against Sherlock’s own and he hissed involuntarily. Jesus Christ- that felt- It felt like he was on fire.

Despite what his own John (and interfering older brother) thought, Sherlock had actually had sex. Of sorts. Like everything else, he’d experimented and the results were so mixed, so inconclusive and confusing that Sherlock had deemed the whole thing a failed hypothesis.

This, however, had very obvious results.

Sherlock registered that John had shifted down and was now mouthing his boxers. John pressed his face into the cotton, his mouth hot and warm against sensitive skin. Sherlock inhaled sharply as he felt a throb in his crotch. The boxers were slipped down and warm hands began to slowly stroke him from under the covers.

Sherlock pushed the duvet back. He wanted to see John. He wanted to know that somewhere, some John wanted him like this.

“Good?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock, his hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s cock.

“Good,” Sherlock whispered, unable to find more words to describe how he felt.

John grinned again and dropped his head back towards Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock pressed himself into the pillow, closing his eyes and feeling his stomach tense as John worked his way down, taking so much of Sherlock that he thought he might black out.

He forced his eyes back open. He had to see this. He had to remember every single detail.

“Relax,” John said softly, pressing a warm hand against Sherlock’s chest. 

Oh god, he was seeing actual stars. Blood rushing in his ears. This was too much. And at the same time the idea of stopping made him want to howl.

Sherlock made a noise he didn’t realise he was capable of making. Somewhere between a strangled yelp and a moan. He looked down at John, eyes wide, hoping it hadn’t put him off. John grinned, bobbing up and down, pressing deeper and deeper-

“John, please. I’m going to-” Sherlock shuddered as John pressed deeper, faster. One hand was gently tugging at Sherlock’s testicle. No one had ever done that and he was shocked to discover that from now on, he only wanted that doing.

“God, John. John.” Sherlock panted and John hummed in response as Sherlock came with a small sob.

John continued sucking softly, swallowing hard and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He moved up to the top of the bed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“It’s almost seven, go back to sleep for another hour.” John wrapped himself around Sherlock, his erection still present in Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock lay there as John began to drift off to sleep, pressed against Sherlock.

He felt complete in a way he never had before. He softly turned to John.

He didn’t think he’d ever sleep again.

---

“Never trust doctors.” A man limps into John’s room, rolling his eyes at the sight of John.

Clearly this doctor was insane.

Unlike the blonde nurse, he wasn’t in scrubs or even a lab coat. Maybe he wasn’t a doctor at all. Shrink?

“Oh Christ, are you a psychologist?” John asked wearily. “I’m not insane. I’m a doctor.”

“You’re right about one of those three things.” The man said flatly, tapping his cane lightly on the floor. "Shall we play a game to guess which one?"

He wasn’t Sherlock. But there was something Sherlockian about him. He was older, American, but he carried the same expressions and clearly, he had John’s Sherlock’s bedside manner.

“Sherlock?” John tried.

“House.” The man rolled his eyes, settling himself on the chair opposite the bed. He rested his chin on his cane and studied John.

“I’ve heard your name,” John replied flatly. 

“Most people have, it's also a noun.” House shrugged. “So, tell me, Doctor Watson. You had a minor trip and fall, barely a scratch on you. Clean drug tests and yet, you think you’re in a different universe?” The man tipped a small orange pill box into his hands.

“Are you on drugs?” John said slowly. Christ, this Sherlock was a lunatic.

“I assumed that was something we had in common.” The man swallowed and sat back in the chair.

“I’m not on- Look. You wouldn’t understand, I’m not meant to be here.”

“Paranoid.”

“I’m not para-!” John started and sighed. “Fine. Sure. Don’t give me Haloperidol.” John realised that there was a good chance he did sound insane. 

“Oh, doctor words. I can use those too. Stat. O2. Baker Act.” House beamed in response. “But, I do have one question. This thing carries enough radiation that you actually owe me a new MRI machine.” House held up the remote.

“Shit.” John sighed.

“So, how insane are you?” House said with a grin.

---

 

“I take it you didn’t get back to sleep then?” John laughed as the alarm went off, throwing back the duvet and tugging on a t-shirt. “Right, I’ve got an early shift and I’ll be back after lunch. Be nice to him today.”

“Be nice to who?” Sherlock blinked, slowly sitting up.

John shook his head slowly and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

Instincts that Sherlock was wholly unaware of took over and Sherlock tugged him closer. He wondered what it would feel like to do more than this. To press his own mouth on John, feel the pressure of him in his throat.

He was slightly horrified to realise that he’d managed to give himself another erection.

“Bugger off, Holmes. I’m late.” John mumbled into his mouth. “See you later.”

With that, John Watson, shirt in hand, barrelled out of the bedroom door. Sherlock fought the urge to run after him and instead, settled on a shower. He dressed slowly scrabbling around for his trousers and exhaling sharply to find the remote and wandered out into the familiar living room.

Violin. Sherlock looked over at his music stand and discovered a series of songs that he didn’t know. It was his handwriting. But the songs were new. Or simply, as of yet, unwritten. He began to play through the notes, weaving his bow across the D string and working it over to the A.

“John’s song again? You’re becoming far too sentimental these days.”

The violin screeches to a halt.

Sherlock doesn’t immediately turn to face Mycroft. He feels like a little boy again, knowing that Mycroft will be able to read everything, every expression. He doesn’t want Mycroft to see what happened this morning. That’s between him and John.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be mother." Mycroft sighed, bustling off to the kitchen.

Sherlock schools his features, determinedly setting them into a cool mask and sinks into a chair, fiddling with his bow, tightening the hairs.

A steaming cup of tea is placed in front of him.

“I’ve told you, Sherlock,” Mycroft says evenly, as he slowly sat down across from him.

“Yes. Caring isn’t an advantage. I must be out of my mind.” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft blinks at him, genuinely surprised. “Are you quite alright?”

“Oh, because I mustn’t be alright?” Sherlock glares back.

“No, because you’re acting like a child.” Mycroft snorted softly and then a look of understanding crossed his face. “Ah. I see what this is about. Sherlock, I didn’t realise you were still this petty. I told you, I was incorrect.”

“You’re always incorrect,” Sherlock said, his mouth a grim line as he flicked his violin bow. Mycroft reached out and steadied his arm.

“Sherlock, you know why I’m here. You can stop pretending.” Mycroft’s face was contorted in concern.

Sherlock prepared to snap back with something scathing, but he glanced at Mycroft’s hands. Different. Nails shorter, clean, as usual. Ring, plain gold band. Engagement. Not too flashy, fairly recent by the looks of it.

“You’re getting married,” Sherlock said carefully. "And you want to ask me a question?" 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Is everything ok with you and Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock, for a horrifying moment, considered explaining that he was in a different universe and that the real him had no idea what he was doing. That he received the first blow job of his life today and it has actually broken his brain. That he feels so out of sorts, he actually wants to reach out to Mycroft and sob that he’s not meant to be here.

But, Sherlock does none of this.

Because what idiot would try and explain this situation out loud?

They’d sound insane.

---

“That’s what I mean about the universe thing.” John finishes.

House hasn’t moved from the chair but he has knocked back another pill. “I’m going to get a consult.” He raps his cane on the glass doors and the blonde woman reappears.

“You could just get up.” She says wearily.

“I need Wilson.” House snaps.

“There are no signs of cancer- why would you-” The blonde woman starts.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I implied I wanted your opinion. When I want that, I’ll send you the secret signal. It’ll look like me being wheeled down to the morgue.” House rolled his eyes and kicked his feet up onto John’s bed. John eyed his shoes. Trainers. What doctor wears trainers?

The nurse stomps out.

“That was rude,” John says pointlessly.

“You’re insane,” House replies bluntly. “Are we just stating obvious things?”

The nurse returns and sticks her head around the door. “He’s gone. No one’s quite sure where he went but he’s just disappeared.” She shrugs.

Ah. Wilson is his John. John fixes House with a grim expression. “Told you.”

House glared right back. “This doesn’t make you any less crazy.”

“Wilson is your me.” John nods slowly. “So, I might be crazy, but I’m the only way to get him back.” John beams in response. “We’d better get to work.”

Chapter 5

Notes:

Sorry it's been so long, life got in the way etc
Hope you like this one

Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but Mycroft was nowhere near as stupid as Sherlock so frequently suggested he was.

He could tell something had shifted when Mycroft leaned back in his chair and surveyed him impassively. Sherlock squirmed slightly under his unbroken gaze.

“What does he call me?” Mycroft said flatly, lifting his teacup and taking a sip.

“I’d rather not consider it,” Sherlock replied, trying to avert Mycroft’s gaze, instead staring at his own teacup. “You’ve put on three pounds.”

Mycroft smiled slowly and leaned forward.

"Domestic bliss clearly doesn't suit-" Sherlock began, waving his hand dismissively. 

“Who are you?” Mycroft said, his voice low. 

Sherlock rose to his feet and gestured towards the door. “Goodbye, brother, mine. I have things to do and-”

“In the next sixty seconds, a group of men will enter this room and collect you. You will not enjoy what happens next.” Mycroft said tightly, setting the teacup down and gently adjusting the angle. “I'll ask a final time. Who are you? Because you are certainly not my brother.”

“Oh for-” Sherlock snapped, glancing around the room. Think.

Think, Sherlock.

“Forty seconds.” Mycroft smiled serenely, sipping his tea and Sherlock realised he was cornered.

“We split time,” Sherlock said, scowling and dropping back into the armchair.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in horrified understanding. He huffed a small sigh and then blinked. “I can only hope my own counterpart was not involved.”

“Of course he bloody was.” Sherlock snapped. “Now, call off your guards.”

“You still fall for it.” Mycroft smiled darkly, plucking his teacup back up and stretching out his legs in the chair. “Every single time.”

Sherlock scowled. “Is there really even a he?”

“I think you can deduce that for yourself,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows in polite disbelief. “Now, tell me. From the beginning, about how you managed to ruin space and time as we know it.”

---

 

“I’m not sure I should be out of bed,” John said wearily as House surveyed him blandly.

“I’m inclined to agree.” The man had a slight Australian accent and a mop of floppy blonde hair. John smiled at him gratefully, but he was too busy narrowing huge blue eyes at House.

“You’re surrounded by doctors, doctor,” House said confidently, resting his feet on the table.

John glanced around the table where four other (presumed) medical professionals looked warily back at him. He hadn’t been introduced to any of them and next to the table was a large flip chart with the word ‘insane’ circled.

None of this felt particularly reassuring.

“Who can guess what this is? Twenty dollars for a correct answer.” House waved the remote around the table.

“I’ve told you what it i-” John began.

“Uh, uh- now, remember. You’re insane.” House gestured towards the board. “However, according to our scans. His brain is working just fine. There’s also the small matter of a missing Wilson.”

“Maybe Wilson went home?” One of the doctors suggested slowly, raising his eyebrows.

“WRONG. You lose!” House shouted, leaping up from his seat. “Foreman. I expected better.”

Definitely Sherlock.

“Well, what’s your-” Foreman began.

“I didn’t really expect better,” House whispered loudly to John.

“Are you actually a doctor?” John said slowly, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes.

“I’m thinking toxin.” One of the women said decisively. “Or radiation poisoning.”

“How’s your skin?” House turned back to John. “Noticed any of it falling off? Eyeballs itching?”

John blinked. “No. Not-”

“Maybe Wilson just got sick of you.” Blonde doctor added with a smirk. “Can’t say I blame him.”

“Homophobe.” House snapped.

“I think maybe I might discharge myself,” John said, rising to his feet.

That was when John spotted a familiar bright light. 

Unlike the last time, John wrapped his hands around himself. This time, he'd be ready for the fall. 

---

“We’re at Baker Street,” Sherlock said, glancing around.

It was Baker Street. But it also wasn’t. Everything had a light haze around it. Mycroft blinked next to him, glancing around.

It was rare to see Mycroft looking apprehensive. And Sherlock wasn’t particularly happy to see the small movement of Mycroft’s teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

This Mycroft had set to work on the remote and wherever they were, it wasn't where Sherlock should be. That much he knew. 

“Well, it’s about time.” John appeared in the doorway, wearing a beige jumper. His arms folded and his gaze narrowed.

“John!” Sherlock said with relief, beaming at the familiar sight of dusty blonde hair and a tight-lipped smile that was so familiar it could have been his own.

Mycroft held out an arm to stop Sherlock in his tracks to stride over and grasp him, to breathe in the familiar scent of washing powder, toothpaste and tea.

“I’m not sure if he’s your John,” Mycroft said slowly.

“Neither am I,” John said slowly. "But he belongs to one of us." 

He gestured behind him and Sherlock felt a rush of something close to nausea as a slew of John’s appeared in front of him.

A scowling fifteen-year-old in pyjamas glanced up at John. “Well, he’s not mine.”

“I fucking hope he’s not mine.” A battered John said darkly and Sherlock felt his heart stop for a second. Could that be the John from Serbia? But as quickly as Sherlock had seen him, he was replaced by a gangly, scowling John in uniform, who pulled him backwards. 

“He could be mine.” Another John appeared, smiling reassuringly at Sherlock. “Do you like pad thai, but hate the onions?”

The various Johns took this as an opportunity to fling questions towards Sherlock, who remained rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly agape.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Right, firstly. Can someone, any of you, please make me a bloody cup of tea.” Mycroft shook off his blazer and sank into the armchair. “And if you’d be so kind as to take a seat. One at a time.”

He gestured towards the seat that Sherlock and John usually reserved for clients.

“Sit down, Sherlock,” Mycroft said wearily. Sherlock sank into the armchair opposite him in silence. “Right, youngest first. Tell me, how exactly did you get here?”

Sherlock watched as the fifteen-year-old John sank apprehensively into the wooden chair across from the Holmes brothers. He was dressed in slightly too big pyjamas and Sherlock recognised them vaguely as his own. 

“I was in bed when-”

“Where?” Mycroft asked, tugging a small notebook out of his pocket.

“At school. Sherlock and I share a room.”

“Fine. Continue.” Mycroft glanced at Sherlock as if waiting for him to add something. But Sherlock was too busy staring at John who looked so terrifyingly young, he wanted to sweep him into safety. Away from Mycroft’s blunt tone.

“Sherlock and I were in bed, just talking and then-”

“Whose bed?” Sherlock asked, attempting to keep his voice light, Mycroft raised an eyebrow pointedly.

“Sherlock’s.” John scuffed his slippers against the corners of the chair. “Anyway, there was this really bright light and I woke up here.”

“Focus,” Mycroft said slowly to Sherlock.

John eyed them both nervously and ran a hand through his hair. The gesture, so associated with his own adult John, looked slightly odd on the stocky teenage boy. Sherlock stared at him, still feeling completely at a loss. 

“Sherlock, you can do this.” Mycroft lowered his voice. “I need you to focus.”

Sherlock blinked and Mycroft watched as this version of his little brother began to reboot. Shaking himself off.

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock said flatly. "Did you arrive first?"

Mycroft smiled and sat back in the chair. “I’ll take notes, shall I?”

Chapter 6

John was no longer with House.

He struggled to open his eyes, his hands groping the ground, as he attempted to right himself from the drop. Tiles. Cold tiles. John inhaled deeply, forcing his eyes open. Focus. What would Sherlock say? Observe.

He was in a cellar. Somewhere near water, from what he could hear.

The door was flung open before John could even catch his breath. As light slowly began to flood the small room, John felt a rush of joy.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, attempting to rise to his feet, beaming. “Sherlock, thank Christ, it’s you.”

Sherlock looked the same as always, aside from a small scar on his cheek. He glanced at John blandly. 

John struggled to his feet, the colour draining from his face as he spotted the man standing next to Sherlock.

“Ah, now this is my fault,” Sherlock said slowly, turning towards Jim with a small smile. “Terribly rude of me not to do introductions. This is Jim Moriarty.”

Jim smiled sweetly at John, and he felt his stomach lurch.

“Sherlock-” John hissed.

“You’re becoming a bit of a nuisance, detective.” Jim sighed wearily, glancing at Sherlock, as if to check that this was alright. Sherlock gestured for him to go ahead. “You and your friend Lestrade really do need to learn about minding your own business.”

“Detective? No, Sherlock-”

“He’s very attached to you, isn’t he?” Jim said lightly with a small smile, gesturing towards Sherlock. “Well, far be it from me to keep you apart.”

Sherlock took two small strides forward so he was nose to nose with John. John froze, staring into Sherlock’s cool grey-blue eyes.

When the first punch crashed into him, John scrabbled on the tiles to stay on his feet. His eyes darting hopelessly, trying to ignore the white hot pain and cling to his bearings. He couldn’t see Sherlock, his right eye already swelling shut.

As the second came, John realised the impossible. That Sherlock was allowing someone to hurt him.

By the third, his nose crunching noisily, he swallowed blood and focused his eyes.

Sherlock smiled serenely and drew back his leg.

John was too shocked to prepare for the blow.

---

One of the Johns (Sherlock had lost count) set another cup of tea down on the side table with a small smile. Sherlock nodded as he padded out.

“Go on, send in the next one.” Mycroft sighed, studying his notes.

This John looked remarkably like his own, right down to his bitten fingernails. He was dressed in a shirt and smart trousers, the outfit he tended to favour when doing locum shifts at local doctors.

“Where were you when it happened?” Sherlock asked, taking a sip of scalding hot tea.

“I was at work,” John said lightly, balling his sleeves in his hands. “A patient left the room, and then there was this white light. And then-” John gestured hopelessly around himself.

“Tell us about your movements earlier that day,” Mycroft said, folding his hands onto his lap.

“Uh, I woke up. Some stuff happened.” John said vaguely. “Then I went to work. My Sherlock was meeting his-” John glanced at Mycroft and shrugged helplessly. “His you, actually.”

Mycroft leaned forward with interest, dropping his notepad into his lap. “John?”

John blinked. “Is it you?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock and then back at John. “What does he call me?”

“Darlin’.” John said firmly, then he nodded at Sherlock. “What does he call me?”

“Idiot.” Mycroft smiled. “Which he is clearly, and thankfully, wrong about.”

John grinned, then glanced at Sherlock again. “Wait, does that mean he’s my-”

“No, he’s a different one. I made some adjustments so that I could travel with him. I was hoping to run into my own counterpart.” Mycroft said wearily.

“Wait, so is Greg-” John leaned forward, his face etched with worry.

“Presumably fine. Though I’ll admit I’m a little concerned.” Mycroft said tightly.

“Ugh.” Sherlock winced, snapping his gaze over to Mycroft. “You’re marrying Graham?”

Mycroft and John locked eyes and for a second, Sherlock saw something pass between them.

“Been a while since I’ve heard Graham.” John huffed a small laugh. “Yes. Your brother and Greg have been together for years. Almost as long as we- as-” John glanced around helplessly. “Anyway, you were supposed to meet him today to talk about being best man.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I’d ever be best man for Mycroft.”

John and Mycroft once again exchanged glances and then Mycroft gave him a small, sad smile. “You were quite excited, actually.”

“I doubt that,” Sherlock said moodily, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. “Right, so this one isn’t right, let’s get one of the others. How many is that so far?”

John glanced at Mycroft again with a tight smile. Mycroft raised his eyebrows lightly and shrugged, the gesture so unlike him that Sherlock paused.

“Eleven so far,” Mycroft glanced at his notes. “Five to go.”

John rose slowly out of his chair and then narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

John folded his arms and his mouth shifted into a grim line. “Wait, hold on. What time today did you say you arrived?”

---

John was no longer staring into darkness, hot tears burning his eyes at the thought of Sherlock’s hand crashing into his nose.

His stomach was still churning unpleasantly, they’d left him alone for now. But he held his breath as the door swung open again.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock hissed into the dark. “I told you and Lestrade that I’d give you the update next week.”

John glanced at Sherlock, still having no idea what to suggest.

“Mycroft is sending in a team. Should be here in an hour. Wait for the next signal and tell Lestrade to follow the usual protocol for messages.” Sherlock muttered, crouching down on his haunches and glancing behind him. “Sorry about your nose, did my best to avoid your ribs, you’re supposed to curl in on my foot.”

“I think you broke it,” John replied, unsure of what else to add.

“Yes, well, it was that or your neck.” Sherlock sighed. “And that would be most inconvenient.” Sherlock glanced behind him again.

John, who was still processing this, blinked into the darkness.

“I haven’t got long.”

“Why?” John whispered.

Sherlock turned back to him, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“John, we both agreed to this. You know it’s the only way.” Sherlock said carefully, he glanced behind himself one last time and pressed his mouth to John’s forehead.

John felt the air seep out of his lungs.

“I love you,” Sherlock said so softly. John wondered if he’d actually imagined it. “I’ll be home soon.”

With that, he was gone.

Once again, John had more questions than answers, but alone, on a cold, dark floor, he supposed he had plenty of time to consider them.

---

“You let me-” John hissed, pressing his palms into his eyes.

They were huddled in the bathroom of 221B. Sherlock stood awkwardly while John perched on the edge of the bath, dragging a hand through his hair. He was grateful that John had taken his hand and tugged them in here rather than having this conversation in front of Mycroft.

“I didn’t mean to let you-” Sherlock muttered, his fingers drumming at his sides. “It just sort of happened.”

“Jesus, Sherlo- Not Sherlock.” John corrected himself. “Christ, does that mean I’ve cheated on-”

“No, it was just- I’m sorry,” Sherlock said sincerely. “I am.”

“You’re just friends, aren’t you.” John finally tugged his hands away from his face. “With your John, I mean.”

“Best friends.” Sherlock clarified.

His John had called him that. On multiple occasions. It seemed important to clarify.

“Right. Sure.” John sighed. “OK, Christ- I have some explaining to do when he comes home.” John gestured towards the door as if Sherlock were a naughty school boy, released from the headteacher’s office.

Unsure of what else to say, Sherlock slunk out and flopped back into the armchair where Mycroft was flicking through papers with a familiar, bland disinterest.

“Go on. Say it.” Sherlock snapped. “Wanker.”

Mycroft glanced up at him and surveyed him for a second.

“I don’t need to.” Mycroft dropped his gaze back to the papers.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the edge of the armchair, feeling the humiliation rise to his cheeks.

“You’ve gained at least four-” Sherlock began.

“Oh don’t, please. It’s bad enough having you call him Gavin.” Mycroft said, without looking at Sherlock.

“I didn’t-”

“My own counterpart might allow you to take out your non-existent temperance. But, I certainly won’t.” Mycroft snorted derisively. “Inauspicious, and quite frankly, poorly advised choices aside, we do have more pressing issues.”

Sherlock felt a rush of irritation that appeared to shift into a strange sort of guilt.

“You like him, don’t you?” Sherlock said slowly, staring at Mycroft who was shuffling papers.

Mycroft glanced up, still not meeting Sherlock’s eye. “Do you believe my other self not to like you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt his jaw set.

Did his own Mycroft like him? Surely not.

“He would do anything for me.” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly, his fingers drumming on the armrest of the chair.

Mycroft let out a small huff of laughter and placed the papers down, finally dragging his gaze to Sherlock. He stared at him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to share something terribly important.

“Do you know what my brother did, the thing that changed our relationship?” Mycroft asked with a small smile.

Sherlock glanced around. Did he save him? He must have solved something, something complicated. But what? Perhaps that nightmarish MI5 mission his own counterpart had implored him to consider.

“No, not a case.” Mycroft said quietly, raising his eyebrows. “He proved me wrong.”

Sherlock felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. This Mycroft wasn’t so different to his own after all. He just needed to figure out-

“He showed me that sentiment. Both for someone else and, more importantly, sentiment for oneself can change someone.”

Sherlock paused, studying Mycroft who had returned to his papers.

Sherlock had never said these three words out loud before.

And never to Mycroft.

“I don’t understand.”

The words came out before he could stop them.

“Quite.” Mycroft glanced at him and offered him a sympathetic smile. “And I’m sure you’ve been reminded that sentiment is a chemical defect. It’s interesting though, defects create new structures. They can change old ones. Sometimes for the better.”

Sherlock felt his mind spool through cation vacancies, the missing ions leaving the structure to create a positive charge.

“I see,” Sherlock said slowly.

“The midbrain’s ventral tegmental area,” Mycroft said airily, waving the next John in.

The scowling John in an army uniform sighed wearily and glanced at the two of them. “So, where should I start from?”

“The day you arrived, please.” Mycroft replied in clipped tones, before glancing at Sherlock. “Unless you’d prefer earlier, Sherlock?”

“The day you arrived is fine.” Sherlock muttered, trying to concentrate rather than spooling through his memory of neurological anatomy. He glanced briefly at Mycroft who was nodding carefully at this John.

The midbrain’s ventral tegmental area.

It’s the first part of the brain to change when one falls in love.

---

John still hadn’t got used to the fall. They seemed to be happening faster now, with shorter gaps between the universes. John found himself arms out by his sides for balance, clinging onto the remote.

John blinked, feeling the heat return to his body. He was, once again, back in Baker Street where Sherlock, potentially his Sherlock, flung himself out of his chair.

Christ, he was exhausted and not interested in explaining - once again - that he’d been caught skipping through universe after universe.

“Hello, John.” He strode towards him and tugged him to an embrace.

John froze, slowly allowing his arms to fall around this Sherlock.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Holmes,” John said softly, pulling back to study the man carefully. “I’ve found you.”

“I knew you would.” Holmes beamed. “I knew it.”

John found himself grinning back at Holmes, the lines on his face so familiar that John felt a tug of something like hope. He’d solved it. He’d made it.

Holmes plucked the remote from John’s hand and threw it directly into the fire.

“Jesus, fucking-” John dropped to his knees, watching as the plastic began to crackle, omitting strange blue flames.

“I’m so sorry.” He said.

“What have you done?” John whispered, barely able to speak. “What the fuck have you done?”