Groundhog Day

by lasuen

Summary:

John has to relive the same day time and again. The title speaks for itself, really.

Notes:

• A translation of День Сурка by Remine

As always, thankful to the author who gave me permission to translate her fanfiction work, and forever grateful to my wonderful beta blackorchestrafreak.

Reviews are hugely appreciated. Enjoy your reading!

Part 1

Everything happens for a reason; there has to be an attainable objective. The fact that John hasn't figured that out just yet doesn't mean there isn't one. It's easier for John to think that there is a reason somewhere, at least; otherwise he can't understand for the life of him why it keeps happening.

He's been given a chance. No, not the second chance. If John's calculations are right, it's his one hundred and thirty first. It is the chance to relive, time and again, the 4th of December, 2010. An ordinary, entirely uneventful day, save for the fact that it's stuck on rewind.

But why? What is he supposed to do in order to stop this everlasting rigmarole?

There's absolutely nothing going on around him he could change for the better. There has come a day of utter stillness in the frantic life he has led from the moment he met Sherlock. Although, as a matter of fact, there could have been quieter times earlier, but to that point John has a rather vague recollection of what happened before the 4th of December. One way or another, Sherlock never ceases to complain about the downtime; he is always bored. Sometimes John can't hold back a nervous chuckle – there has been nothing going on in his life for two months.

If someone were in danger and John was meant to save them…

If his help was required to solve an especially complicated crime…

If there was something happening in the world that he could have the slightest influence over… Although, of course, John isn't inclined to think of himself quite as highly as to expect to be the world's savior, but he could at least warn the world about an appalling earthquake, or a terrible plane crash, or perhaps he could prevent some other grave incident.

But. Nothing. Is. Happening.

John has already memorised the TV programming for the 4th of December airing on the majority of the accessible channels; he has meticulously gone through all famous news websites; he has read a whole bunch of papers and magazines, but all in vain. It seems as though someone has pushed a time button to grant a respite for the maddening life around - for the whole of twenty four hours of the day.

Thus, the idea of changing the world into a better place was out the window. There was, though, left an option to change himself for the better. It was selfish and silly to presume that the charmed circle of the 4th of December was concocted personally for the sake of John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and presently modest physician of one of the London hospitals, but he still held out a hope of waking up on the 5th one day.

~0~

The alarm clock rings with insolent persistence at six thirty in the morning. The very first thing John is going to do after all of that is over is to change the monotonous strum of the clock to something, anything else.

Slamming the button and switching off the pestering rhythm, John is sick and tired to his utmost core. He tucks his head into the pillow, indulging in warm covers for a few minutes more. A long time ago – a hundred and thirty days ago, to be precise – he would've got up very quickly, dressed himself, eaten his breakfast and headed straight to work, just as any other respectable citizen. Instead, groping for the mobile phone buried under his pillow, he calls Sarah and greets her with a voice hoarse from sleep:

"Good morning, Sarah. Yes, I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well today. No, just a usual cold, nothing to worry about. But you know I can't see any patients today in a condition like this. Yes, of course, I'll ask my landlady to make a chicken broth for me. Yes, I'll take a hot cup of milk with honey. Don't worry, Sarah, it's just one day off. I'm positively sure I'll get better by tomorrow. Good as new. Yes, of course. Thank you."

He felt a little ashamed when he did it for the first time. He never pretended to be unwell, not since his school years, but no power on earth could possibly force him into spending yet another day working at the hospital. He was supposed to have fifteen patients that day: six before lunch and nine afterwards. Twelve of those were down with a simple cold, two had an allergy, and the last one was faking. Eight women, seven men. John could list every aspect of their life down to the last detail. It was unbearably tedious. Anything would be better than listening to the same heap of complains all over again. They could get themselves another doctor, and no one would ever know that John deceived Sarah into thinking he was sick. Thankfully, now the whole day is at his disposal.

Lazily stretching his sleepy limbs, John scrambles out of the warm, cozy covers. Mrs. Hudson saves on the heating, turning it on only during the day, which practically makes his bedroom endure something of an ice age overnight, cooling it down to a drastic level. Why couldn't he be stuck on a balmy spring day, or during a sunny summer day? Hastily, John puts on his old saggy jumper over a thick t-shirt, slides his feet into his loafers and goes downstairs into their living room.

The detective lies sprawled out on the sofa, eyes buried into the screen of his laptop. John has found out that Sherlock slept not more than four hours on the previous night, but even that can be considered quite an achievement. When they are in the middle of an especially tangled investigation, his frenetic flatmate can go without sleep for days at a time.

"Morning, Sherlock," John greets his flatmate.

Plunged headlong into the realm of the Internet in search for a new riddle, Holmes emits a faint grunt without looking up. John knows all too well about the futility of his endeavours. He goes out of the flat and makes his way downstairs. He knows that Mrs. Hudson is already up – that night her hip gave her particularly hard time, making her get up at five. He knocks on her door.

"John?" she calls his name, surprised, muffling up in a shawl. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. Yes, everything's fine. Can I borrow something? A few eggs and some flour?"

Her eyebrows raised in confusion, she gives John a long look and then smiles, softly:

"Of course, dear. I'll be back in a moment."

Five minutes later John brings his loot back upstairs and immediately goes into the kitchen, Sherlock's inquisitive eyes following him intently. Pulling a milk box out of the fridge and getting a bottle of oil off the shelf, John puts a frying pan onto the burner.

Today pancakes are just pure delight: golden brown, even and, most importantly, successful at the very first try. A deliciously tasty odour pervades the air, and John is not at all amazed to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. The detective casts an inspecting look around the kitchen and lingers on John, who holds a spatula between his fingers.

"Pancakes require fifteen minutes longer than sandwiches. You're going to be late for work."

"Oh, don't worry about work," John waves him off. Carefully, he uses the spatula to lift up a pancake and skillfully flips it over onto the raw side. "I'm off duty today. Sarah gave me a day off."

Sherlock is still on the threshold, observing him with close attention. There's a slight amusement in his eyes – John has never shown any proclivity towards cooking before. The list of the dishes John was usually able to perform used to include omelets, macaroni, and stewed beans – the necessary minimum for a bachelor. Now that he had a tremendous amount of additional time which needed to be spent in a reasonably useful manner, working on his cooking skills seemed like a good idea. Getting Angelo to teach him to cook something more complex than an omelet turned out to be surprisingly easy; it took John only a hint at Sherlock's fine brains whichrequire healthy and tasty food.

"Have you found anything interesting?" asks John.

"The scent distracted me," answers Sherlock, almost accusingly.

Turning towards the cooker, John hides a soft smile. "Well, since you're here anyway, why don't you have breakfast with me? Eat some while they're warm."

Sherlock maintains a meaningful silence, and John adds, pouring another portion of batter onto the frying pan, "Could you clean up the table a bit?"

No one should underestimate the power of my pancakes, thinks John a few minutes later, not without content. He and Sherlock are at the table opposite each other, wolfing down pancakes as though they might never get to eat again. Next to Sherlock's right elbow sit a set of titration pipes, accompanied by beakers and flasks milling about in tight quarters, but the detective has cleared almost half of the table, making some space for a small bowl of cherry jam to be squeezed in the midst. Perhaps, were it not the bloody 4th of December all over again, that day could've merited a special mark on the calendar and consequent annual festivities.

As soon as they are finished with pancakes and half way through the tea, John catches Sherlock's observant gaze.

"What? Is there something on my face?" asks John, licking the rest of butter and jam off his lips.

"No. It's just that you have never shown any cooking talents before," he says, the tone of his voice nearly resentful as if John committed a state crime having kept this fact from him.

Collecting the dirty plates off the table, John shrugs it away with an evasive: "Just thought about introducing a few adjustments to our usual menu."

Sherlock gives him another close look before retiring back into the living room.

~0~

After washing the dishes John comes back to his room and makes the bed. Changing the bedsheet, he thinks absent-mindedly that army habits gradually fall out of use – earlier he didn't let himself leave a mess if not in case of emergency. To jump out of bed, dress at a lightning-like speed, neatly make the bed – all of it used to be a routine habit during a few years of his military service. Life in peace changed it rather quickly, although the first two in the list would come in handy every now and then; especially when, swept with the ardour for a new investigation, Sherlock could burst into his bedroom at any time of night and drag him along to a crime scene. There's no time for making the bed on such occasions. Besides, when he comes back home, all but frostbitten and exhausted, the unfolded bed looks much more inviting.

Smoothing over the creases, John pulls clean underwear out of the drawer and makes for the bathroom. Lathering his shoulders, he catches himself at an interesting thought. During his morning shower, relaxing and refreshing at the same time, he usually thinks over his plans for the day and further on – for tomorrow, for the week, sometimes for the whole month. To buy milk (the one that's in the fridge would suffice only for a single cup of coffee), to do laundry (the clothes basket is full to the brink), to invite Sarah on a movie date, to call Harry, to buy Christmas presents. Right now he just goes through those one hundred and thirty days in order to spend the next one at least a tiny bit differently; otherwise the monotony is sure to bore him out of his mind.

To be perfectly honest, John sometimes doubts if he is not mentally deranged in the first place. He could be lying in a lunatic institution right now, loaded with chemicals and fully immersed into his consciousness, but such reflections always give him depressive moods and John prefers to not place himself at the core of the problem and thinks that it must be the time loop after all, which, albeit incredible, engulfed the entire world around him.

Turning off the water, he rubs his body with a coarse towel, his movements fast and sharp, his skin going red, and comes up to a mirror to shave and then brush his teeth.

After his initial shock of the recurring day was over, John tried to find positive sides to his situation. For instance, he could get to know Sarah better – her habits and dreams, her past – in order to set things right in their relationship.

He invites her out to restaurants and cafes, he takes her shopping, or they watch television together.

At first, all is going well. Sarah is predictably astonished when he brings her favourite lilies, when he laughs at funny moments of her favourite comedy; she kisses him, grateful for the romantic dinner with candles she always dreamt of. But the further it goes, the more boring it gets.

Sarah is a nice girl. She's smart, understanding, and pretty – a dreamboat for any man. For an ordinary man who is willing to create a family, to have a respectable job, to spend quiet evenings sitting on a sofa. It's not enough for John.

Mycroft was right that time when they first met – John's pursuing the war. Not the one where his friends get killed and where he has to constantly dodge the bullets and fulfill sometimes utterly inane orders, but rather the one where his body is flooded with adrenaline, where risk makes a life worth something, where the anticipation of victory truly curdles the blood in his veins. It's the war with the criminal world which Sherlock opened in front of him and which doesn't stand any competition with a quiet comfortable family evening in. John doesn't mind quietness and tranquility, but he doesn't mind the danger even more.

Sarah is as predictable as the multiplication table, and John spends less and less time with her until their communication boils down to John's calling in sick for work in the morning. Sarah doesn't know yet that her relationship with John reached its logical conclusion. They don't say for nothing that routine kills love. His eagerness to mend the situation, the everyday merry-go-round, in its almost literal sense, ruined his feelings for Sarah.

Well, maybe it just wasn't in the cards. It would've been much harder, had Sarah suffered from their break-up. John is sure she hasn't had enough time to full-out fall in love with him in order to be too upset about it. At least, the thought helps him out of the throes of guilty conscience.

His hair still wet, John steps out of the bathroom and puts on a pair of black trousers along with one of his few decent shirts, dark blue and in barely noticeable stripes. At the place where he's going to spend the evening, his usual jumper and jeans would be slightly inappropriate.

All dressed up for the cause, John goes downstairs. After being thoroughly disappointed in the Internet, Sherlock slumps on the sofa in front of the turned-on television, his stare completely blank. There's an interview with Hilary Mantel, an author of many bestsellers, which seems boring even to John's standards. Sherlock's attention is momentarily snapped to his flatmate's appearance.

"You're going out on a date," he states matter-of-factly, having estimated John's outfit.

"Nothing of the kind," answers John, a bit absently, rummaging in the pile of books and magazines on the coffee table, looking for Sherlock's iPhone.

Half an hour in his absence the detective is going to send him an urgent text through the mobile website asking to come home immediately. When at the first time John, preoccupied, rushed back home thinking Sherlock needed his assistance with a new case, it turned out that Sherlock simply needed his iPhone, which was lying on the table two steps away from the sofa. In response to John's indignation he lied through his teeth about the telephone number for the laboratory with which he required immediate communication. Now John knows all too well that all numbers from his contact list Sherlock learnt by heart long ago, and the mentioned immediate communication turned out to be an absolutely disgusting experiment.

"Oh, here it is," mutters John, fishing the iPhone out of the incredible mess and approaching Sherlock, "There."

Sherlock ignores his outstretched hand.

"Poor Sarah," he drawls in a falsely compassionate voice instead. "Does she know you're going out with someone else? Who with, by the way?"

"It's not a date." John places the telephone on the floor right next to the sofa and heads for the door.

"You're thoroughly shaved; you wear a shirt instead of a jumper, and it matches your eyes; you didn't use the eau de Cologne Sarah gave you as a present. Taking into account the fact she's working today and you suddenly asked for a day off, there's only one unequivocal inference."

"Wasn't it you who complained about the scent of my eau de Cologne?" asks John, giving a half-hearted shrug while putting on his shoes. "And again, I'm not going on a date."

"Where are you going then?" asks Sherlock, seemingly irritated. If John didn't know Sherlock was just annoyed at being wrong in his conclusions, he would've presumed his flatmate was jealous.

Smiling involuntarily at the thought, John wraps his wool scarf around the neck. The temperature is almost below zero outside, and there's a strong wind.

"On business," says John, simply. "You don't always inform me where you're going, do you, now? I reckon I'm entitled to a little secret of my own."

"I'm going to find out eventually, anyway," notices Sherlock, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I'm sure you are," John agrees. Zipping up his jacket, he grabs hold of the umbrella and turns to his friend. "If you're still planning on experiments with potassium nitrate, for God's sake, do it at Bart's. I'm not particularly happy about airing out the rooms afterwards – it's cold enough."

And just like that, clicking the door shut without saying another word, John is already on his way.

Part 2

The London sky is heavy under the weight of grey clouds densely huddled up to the far away horizon line – the typical concurrence for this time of the year. The umbrella comes in handy after nine a.m. when it starts to drizzle. The thought that he could miss the sun so much has never crossed John's mind. Several years in Afghanistan have made him accustomed to much friendlier climates; and continuously foul weather gives him an awful time.

Fighting back a shiver in the nippy, penetrating wind that chills straight to the marrow, John lifts his collar up a little and catches a cab.

"Cato Street, 16."

The perpetual rewind has two major impacts. First of all, no one remembers anything. Whoever John comes into contact with on the 4th of December – new acquaintances, old acquaintances – the next morning wipes all of their memories in one fell swoop. Even if he tells someone he's trapped within one day, tomorrow will resume its abnormal course. John is the only person to ever remember things happening. He has never stumbled across any other fellow-sufferers who would've fallen into the same sticky wicket.

The other one is no consequences. As soon as the alarm clock rings, everything that has happened within the day switches back to square one. There's no sense in replenishing food supplies; in the morning the fridge is going to be in its original state of vacuity. There's no point in doing laundry either – a heap of clothes will conquer the basket all over again. A new dawn will fetch the lost phone back to its previous whereabouts, will immaculately repair the broken cups, will patch up any wounds and knit together any splintered bones. Fortunately, the rubber does its trick on John, too. It's way more enjoyable to get sloshed in the evening knowing that the morning hangover is never going to rear its ugly head, and that Mrs. Hudson won't incinerate him with her best disapproving look, and that Sherlock won't set out to track down the reasons for such despicable pastime.

Together, these rules provide him with the infinite number of possibilities to experiment on the march of events taking place within the infernal loop of the 4th of December. John still believes he's going to accidentally do something that will trigger the reality glitch and, eventually, put it all back into place. John avoids considering the chance that he is just a helpless bystander who has no say in it.

Cato Street is where Mrs. Larkin dwells. She is a fifty-five years old cat lady who is fond of cherry liquor and Vladimir Putin. She is half-French half-Russian; she married a British citizen and moved to London; now Mrs. Larkin gives private lessons. John has been asking her for them for fifty three days. He makes up stories telling her first about his French fiancée, then about his probable resettlement to St. Petersburg. An abrupt visit on such short notice costs John double, but as a private tutor she is worth every penny of it. Today she's no longer wrinkling her nose at his attempts to pronounce a tongue-wrenchingly difficult Russian greeting. Besides, tomorrow morning he's going to have all the money back in his wallet anyway.

The idea of self-improvement belonged to Sarah. She was the first person whom he told about the endless 4th of December. As a matter of fact, she was rather easily persuaded – a lot more easily than certain genius detectives. Alas, as the next day came he had to start the persuasion all over again.

One time Sarah exclaims:

"The same day on repeat? Today? But that's a wonderful chance to learn something! I've always dreamt of learning to horseback ride, I love horses. It's a pity I can't do it now, I'm too busy. But you have loads of time, I even envy you a little. Now, John, don't give me this look. I understand you're upset, but you've got to agree – you have so many opportunities!"

He does have opportunities. Starting from horseback riding and finishing with card cheating tricks. Neither is of any practical use to John. Learning to cook a little bit better, though, was quite a beneficial skill. They don't have to abuse Angelo's hospitality anymore when he and Sherlock want for dinner something more sophisticated than just spaghetti.

Apart from his newly acquired cooking skills, John thought about learning new languages. He has always liked foreign languages, especially Italian which he used to study at school and was quite fluent in. In Afghanistan he had to learn Dari and Pashto while communicating with local people. He thinks he could also benefit from learning Russian and French. He's a long way from reading Philippe Delerm's books in the original, but he has taken the first step. Besides, it's definitely a far better pastime than having the blues while staying at home all day.

After elegantly saying au revoir to Mrs. Larkin, John calls Inspector Lestrade. There is a lecture on criminalistics regarding trace evidence procedures in the Black Museum of Scotland Yard at ten thirty that day. Lestrade is rarely surprised at John's sudden urge to attend the lecture, and he eagerly includes him in the visitors' list.

"I myself reread a few manuals on criminalistics after meeting Sherlock Holmes," he confesses to John. "Although, I still can't make head or tail of how he's doing that. How is he today, by the way?"

"As usual. Bored," answers John with a sigh.

Echoing John, the Inspector exhales gloomily in response.

"At least, since you're living together now he stopped pestering me with messages all the time."

"Yes, now I'm carrying that burden," agrees John with a light smile. A minute later after his talk with Lestrade there is going to be a text from Sherlock: "How's your not-a-date coming along? SH."

"Thank you for a pass to the lecture," says John, gratefully.

"It's nothing, really. You're welcome."

Bored Sherlock is annoying. If he doesn't start shooting at the walls, torturing his violin or poisoning their neighbours with all the miasmas emanating from his chemical experiments, he becomes all but even more annoying. Sherlock, who remains in the bored state for one hundred and thirtieth day in a row is an eternal damnation. What's even more astonishing is how John withstands this damnation, as though a role model for a penitent sinner.

Thing is, with Sherlock John is never bored. The sleuth is too smart and observant not to notice the changes in his flatmate. At any moment now John is to be assailed with a sudden question about what he has been doing over the course of the day. Lately John started to entertain himself by throwing different clues and hints to Sherlock.

He texts him back: "According to plan. Turn on the TV on the fifth channel. JW."

The one and only downside to lectures on criminalistics held in Scotland Yard is that almost all familiar investigators who work in London police forces happen to attend them as well.

"What is he doing here?" a voice that belongs to none other than Anderson rings loud in the hall as the forensic expert notices John in close proximity.

Usually, John is reserved and polite with people he doesn't know very well. As for Anderson, during the whole time of their acquaintance they have barely exchanged a few words, and John wouldn't mind very much if it stayed that way. The forensic expert has a different point of view, though, – it appears Sherlock Holmes has played on Anderson's self-esteem for such a long time that a portion of his gibes and taunts extends to John Watson as well, nearly as an automatic reflex.

"Inspector Lestrade let me attend," answers John, heaving a morose sigh, knowing that Anderson won't leave him in peace just like that.

"He was not quite himself, it seems," retorts Anderson with a scornful laugh. "Well, where is our genius detective Sherlock Holmes, now?"

"Glad to hear you recognise the talents of my flatmate," replies John, trying to skirt around him and proceed on his way, "Sherlock's at home, but I'll let him know you were asking about his well-being."

Anderson goes red with indignation and follows John in his wake.

"He would want that, wouldn't he?! If he thinks he's such a great detective, it would certainly do him some good to listen to this lecture, other than making up his deductive nonsense."

There's a small group of Anderson's colleagues who begin to listen up to their conversation with poorly-concealed interest.

"If Sherlock only thought that he was a great detective, as you conveniently put, the police wouldn't ask his assistance in their investigations, won't you agree? As far as I know, he's never been mistaken in his deductions so far," notes John, his voice cold. "So I presume his 'deductive nonsense' must be working out just fine."

John has always been stunned at everyone's blindness and denial of Sherlock's brilliance. It's hard to define Sherlock's personality as polite and obliging –he hardly hides his sociopathic tendencies in the first place – but his beautiful mind does have an astounding acumen. Even Inspector Lestrade can't help asking Sherlock to talk him through his deductions in order to write a coherent report after Sherlock identifies the murderer a minute into a corpse examination. What's to be expected from those who call Sherlock a freak?

But even if Sherlock himself has long since come to terms with less than unflattering perception of his character, John isn't going to put up with such malicious attacks on his friend's intellectual prowess; and with every passing day his response to Anderson becomes all the more caustic.

There's a chunky man with thick moustache (James Kiton, 41 years old, Kent) who all of a sudden joins in on a conversation:

"Are you talking about the "New Deduction" by Holmes? I've read this article on the Internet. It tells about the ability to notice minute details and, on their basis, restore the flow of events prior to a crime. It's an inquisitive theory, although, it doesn't seem viable when it comes to practical use."

It's at this precise moment when Anderson usually gives his nastiest smirk while John does his best not to point-blank insult him there and then. Time and again.

"Why so?" asks John instead. "You just haven't seen Sherlock at work. I suppose, should he be right here now, it would take him just one swift look at you to advise you to cut down on treacle pies, to buy a Tiffani ring for your wife and to finally take your poodle to a hairdresser – it's long since needed a proper haircut."

"That is absolutely incredible!" Kiton exclaims in amazement. "How did you know?"

"Deduction," replies John simply. "By the way, to you, Anderson, he'd advise to go easy on brandy in the evening, and I myself being a doctor can only support this idea. Excuse me, the lecture is about to start."

"Absolutely brilliant!" Kiton's voice reaches him from behind. "How did he know all that?"

"He who lies down with dogs…" follows Anderson's angry hiss shortly afterwards.

Ten minutes into the lecture, John receives another text from Sherlock. "The movie has the most ridiculous end! The murderer, judging by the evidence, should've been the wife's brother. SH." John answers back: "But the actress in the main role has very beautiful eyes. JW." After that Sherlock remains silent for another half an hour. Professor Whistler is about to start elaborating on the peculiarities of papillary patterns when John's mobile buzzes with another message: "Bored. SH." And shortly, there pops up the next one: "Come home. SH."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, John does a few calculations on a piece of paper, then types another text: "13 5 18 6 25 23 29".

That earns John another five minutes of reprieve until his phone starts vibrating again, this time with a call. John presses the reject button. Sherlock calls him again. Apologising to the person sitting next to him, John gets up and quietly leaves the lecture hall.

"Sherlock–"

"It was transparent, John! This cipher is elementary. A child would crack it!"

"Sherlock–"

"You ascribe an ordinal number to each letter of the alphabet. Then, in order to complicate it, you add another number to it. The only difficulty to this riddle is to find a corresponding number with which the ordinal number increases. Four! You added four!"

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?"

"Have you read my message?"

"Of course, I have. I've just told you."

"No, Sherlock. Have you read it?"

"I am busy. 'I'm busy'. Oh."

"Exactly."

"What are you busy with?"

"Self-improvement."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then I won't be distracting you from his important process."

"Thank you."

~0~

John listens to Professor Whistler for the sixth time. The lecture is meant to be for specialists and contains a certain amount of nuances not easily detectable for an amateur like John – even though he has read a whole manual on trace evidence, even though it's his sixth time. But today he called Lestrade not for the lecture per se, but to ask for a favour. John wanted to see the Black Museum's private collection which is barred to the public.

The glass shelves of the dimly lit museum rooms are full of all kinds of horrendous evidence collected from the most grisly and notorious crimes. John quickly skips a few which even with all their dreadful history are quite ordinary items – daggers, revolvers, and statues. Some other exhibits pique John's interest for a longer time, and he lingers to study them with more scrutiny. There are binoculars which shoot a pair of spikes if you rotate the focus. There's a poisoned umbrella with which Bulgarian dissenter Georgi Markov was killed. It triggers John's memory reminding him of Mycroft Holmes' sneering face whose obsession with umbrellas now acquire rather disturbing and macabre colours. Yet the most enthralling exhibits are still evidence pertaining to Jack the Ripper's case.

John is inspecting the object on one of the shelves – the "From Hell" letter, allegedly written by Jack himself, when he hears a familiar low voice enunciating behind his back:

"The letter is a fake."

Standing straight again, John turns around sharply. Sherlock looks at John with undisguised curiosity, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his coat which he didn't even bother to take off.

"Sherlock!" That's new, thinks John. Sherlock has never come to Scotland Yard on that day before. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come for you."

"For me? What for? Wait a second, how did you know I was here?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"That is fairly obvious, isn't it? When we were on the phone I distinctly heard someone dilating upon trace evidence procedures in the background. The voice was very well audible, which meant the speaker was either at a short distance from you, or used a microphone, which is more probable since his phrasing strongly suggested he had been reading the prepared text. You told me something about self-improvement. It wasn't a leap of logic to surmise that you were at the lecture. Three weeks ago Scotland Yard hang a notice about the criminalistics courses held by Whistler; the notice which you certainly saw the last time we paid a visit to Lestrade. The lecture is private, available only to close audience, therefore you couldn't get there on your own. I called Lestrade, and he didn't deny the fact that you asked him for a pass."

"Hm," mumbles John finally. "When you lay it out like that, it does seem obvious."

"It is," Sherlock nods, complacently. "Well, now I'd like to know the reason you're here. You haven't been big on criminalistics that much before, John."

There is not a trace of morning exasperation on the detective's face, induced by coercive ennui. His eyes are slightly squinted; his lips are pressed together in a thin line as though Sherlock is on the cusp of a new riddle, yet not entirely assured if it's worth his attention.

"Let's say I'm tired of feeling like a complete idiot when you take me to your cases," says John carefully, not sure what can be expected from 'this' Sherlock. "It's not like I can be of any use anyway, but at least I'll start to understand what demands my consideration in the first place."

Tilting his head to one side, Sherlock's look gains an even more inquisitive edge. John steps from one foot to the other, feeling a little nervous.

"I'm coming to a certain conclusion," says Sherlock at length. "You made pancakes this morning which are, by the way, the exact copy of Angelo's and which are so delicious that even I can't resist."

"Really?"

"And when I complained about being bored you sent me a riddle, although it was simple enough for a six year old to solve."

"It took you five minutes!"

"Besides, you took a day off from work in order to stealthily attend a lecture on criminalistics, the reason for it being, in your own words, that you don't want to look bad in my eyes–"

"Oh God," says John, suddenly realising where this is going, "No. No, you're wrong."

"I'm never wrong."

"You were wrong about Harry."

"Your sister has a male name. My conclusions were right."

"Right now they are not."

"John. You're trying to get me to like you, to attract my attention. I could presume that you want to be my friend, but we're already friends. We live together, so I give you, as my friend, enough attention. If you want more, there's only one rational inference."

"I don't want anything!" exclaims John and falls silent at once when a small group of men pass them by in the hall. John lowers his voice an octave, "Look, it's not the best place for such conversation. There are people around."

"We can go back home," suggests Sherlock.

"I don't want to go back home." John has made plans for the day, and he's not in the least enthused by the prospect of going back to Baker Street just to keep on denying these stupid conjectures of Sherlock's. Oh, he didn't. Did he just mention Sherlock and stupidity in the same sentence? That's new.

"You're two times more irritable when you're hungry," notes Sherlock peacefully. "It's noon. We could go to a café."

"Fine," grumbles John, resignedly. "I know a place nearby."

They leave the museum, John walking ahead of two of them, the detective following him for a change, when they have the misfortune to bump into Anderson in the hall.

"Ah. It's you, Anderson," Sherlock snorts animatedly while John takes a step aside at an attempt to skirt the forensic expert. "Hm, you look positively ghastly. How are you feeling today? The morning hangover is a sign of unhealthy style of life." John turns his face away, hiding a smirk. "It's not the best condition for attending lectures," finishes Sherlock, smugly.

Anderson's face blazes with fury.

"Holmes!" The last letter of the detective's surname sounds almost like it has been especially designed for hissing it through gritted teeth.

"Well, I'm going to get my jacket," says John, hurrying to leave Sherlock and the outraged forensic expert alone.

When he comes back, the umbrella tucked under his arm, Anderson is nowhere to be seen, yet there is Kiton, who stands next to Sherlock, gesticulating vigorously. John steps up closer right on time to catch him saying:

"Now I get Barry and treacle tarts. The fur on my trousers and the blot on my coat are a bit of a long shot, but logical, too. Although, there's a likely chance you may make a mistake–"

"Of course, but people are rarely original," answers Sherlock promptly. "Mostly they're tediously predictable and behave in the most platitudinous, most trivial way."

Kiton nods in assent, the pensive expression on his face.

"But what about the ring?" he asks. "Your friend was able to determine that my wife wants a Tiffani ring."

"A ring?" asks Sherlock, his eyebrow creased in confusion.

"Yes. She's been nagging at me for weeks now since she saw it in the jewelry salon. How did you know about the ring?" inquires Kiton, looking at John this time.

Sherlock turns to face John, waiting for an explanation, and John has to hold back a shudder, the intensity of Sherlock's gaze piercing him through. If earlier Sherlock was just mildly intrigued, now John has fully obtained his keenest attention. Isn't that just perfect. Now Sherlock is going to badger him until he gets to know everything. John grabs the detective by the sleeve of his black coat, dismissing Kiton with a hasty "Excuse us, we have to go," as he drags Sherlock to the exit.

Part 3

"I'll have a beefsteak with roasted potatoes, please," says John to the waitress, glancing up from the menu. "And a cherry pie with a cup of black tea. Sherlock?"

"Not hungry."

"He'll have the salmon. And a cherry pie, too."

"I am not hungry."

"Knock it off. We ate breakfast together, and now it is lunch time and I'm starving. Therefore, you should be too."

"Let me kindly remind you that I am the detective amongst the two of us."

"And I'm the doctor. A grown man needs more than a few pancakes a day to sustain his organism. Besides, on the way here you agreed that the conversation was going to take place on my terms. Here's my condition – you eat."

"It's not a condition. It's blackmailing," objects Sherlock, pouting. Arms crossed on his chest, he leans back against the chair, looking particularly displeased.

"Life's unfair," John nods, a tiny half-smile sneaking onto his lips.

They have succeeded in searching out a free table at the far end of the café. Notwithstanding the plummeting rain outside, the place is swarming with people, which probably shouldn't come as much of a surprise since the food is quite decent and local cherry pie is virtually to die for – John has had the recurring delight of testing it first-hand.

Underneath Sherlock's coat hides one of his grey thin polo-neck sweaters which he wears in wintertime. He hasn't taken the scarf off, and along with his soaked curls, falling into his forehead, Sherlock has the appearance of a fashionable artist, or someone who would lead a rather Bohemian lifestyle. Meanwhile the waitress goes out of her way to attract Sherlock's attention.

"Fine. I'll eat," finally caves Sherlock, his entire posture conveying the degree of his annoyance at this swerve of events. He looks wounded as though John had the malevolent objective of making him suffer, rather than the exact opposite.

After scribbling down their order, the waitress leaves seemingly disappointed; Sherlock bestowed upon her only one brisk, superficial glance, nearly ignoring her altogether. With a slight feeling of contempt, John watches her go, reassuring himself that the emotion he has fallen prey to is one of a banal envy – wrapped in the fact that next to Sherlock he doesn't strike quite as impressive figure, both on physical and intellectual fronts. Moments later the miserable battle with his self-esteem is abruptly cut off as Sherlock urges him to speak up, impatient:

"Come on. Start with the ring. You obviously decided to demonstrate to Kiton how my methods work in practice. My sincere congratulations. I haven't expected anything like that from you, to be honest, but I have to give you credit, for you managed it quite well. Very, very well, actually. Let's skip over the fact that the blot on his lapel helped you identify its precise provenance from the treacle tart, or that the fur belonged specifically to a poodle and not to some other dog with hairs that grow in a wavy pattern. How did you establish that Kiton's wife wanted a Tiffany ring? Even I couldn't make such a far-fetched assumption, and I'm fairly doubtful that, apart from deduction, you learnt telepathy and now can read the minds of other people. So what was it?"

"Well, definitely not telepathy," says John, his voice bearing a shaky note. Thankfully, he adds inwardly; the incessant day on constant rewind is just about enough. "The ring, much like the blot and fur, is simple." Sherlock straightens his back and leans forwards in anticipation – if there wasn't the tableful of cloth and silverware cutlery separating them, he would probably grasp John by the hands, forcefully squeezing the answer out of him. "Kiton told me himself."

Sherlock blinks. The incandescent sparkle in his eyes fades away, leaving space for an upsetting realisation.

"You've both tricked me," he utters, frustration crawling into his tone. Immediately John feels like a jerk who snatched an ice-cream cone from a little kid. To see Sherlock react like that is... disheartening. "I have to acknowledge that Kiton has put on a convincing act. He was so persuasive in feigning bewilderment and excitement that I was completely taken in." He averts his eyes, furrowing, and lets his gaze wander around the dull scenery out of the window.

John is at a crossroads. On one hand, he could simply confirm Sherlock's suspicious and assure him it was nothing more than a practical joke and then Sherlock would leave him alone, not even recalling their conversation as soon as tomorrow dawns. But on the other hand, Sherlock has wormed his way into John's life so adroitly that John can't bear the thought of turning out a bitter disappointment. Sherlock is utterly insufferable; he's an abysmal flatmate with a handful of nonsensical and downright maddening habits, who sometimes behaves worse than a capricious child, yet his occasional smiles and conniving expressions from underneath his curls are so genuine they considerably outweigh his not easily condonable short-comings.

John let out a sigh. This was just what he needed – to spend the rest of the day proving to Sherlock that he hasn't gone bonkers. The prospect wasn't exactly an enchanting outcome. Sherlock has managed to get in the way again. John should've gotten used to it by now – it isn't the first time and there is no indication it is going to be the last any time soon. Shaking his head at his own lax of prudence, John finally says:

"We haven't. How was I even to know you were going to come to Scotland Yard?" he points out, reasonably. "And why on earth would I conspire with Kiton?"

Sherlock turns to face him again, thrown for a loop, and for some bizarre, inexplicable reason it makes John feel better. It's unprecedentedly odd, given that John rarely seeks to be the centre of someone's unwavering attention. Usually, when he happens to be under close scrutiny he starts to maniacally second guess his own words and actions, worrying he has done something stupid. Sherlock's piercing stare feels like a scalpel – a sharp, elegant surgical blade that rips open the innards of his soul, tugging the truth out of thoroughly veiled depths; and John has no strength to remonstrate against his own ante mortem examination, so he sets to just look back at Sherlock, expectantly, ruminating on the way.

"I planned on going to the morgue, but headed for Scotland Yard instead," explains the detective. "You were behaving in a rather odd fashion, so I wanted to get to the core of your peculiar conduct."

John rolls his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. Well, of course, Sherlock is, for the life of him, incapable of sitting calmly even for a second if somewhere out in the world there is a mystery he hasn't figured out.

"There's nothing wrong with my conduct," John grumbles under his breath. "You're exaggerating, Sherlock."

"Is it then entirely Kiton's initiative? Why would he do that?"

"No reason," agrees John. "He has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together in confusion, he stares at him as John understands there's no need in beating around the bush any longer. If he already began spilling a few beans, it's going to require all day so he might as well scratch off everything else from his agenda. "You see, as a matter of fact, Kiton told me all that himself, only he has no recollection of it."

"I'm not going to ask whether you clocked him on the head, causing amnesia or something of that nature," says Sherlock skeptically.

"That would be going too far," John nods. "Actually, it's much more complicated."

Fortunately, at that moment the waitress comes up to the table to serve the order, conveniently giving John time to collect his thoughts.

"Eat," John orders, his tone almost peremptory, watching Sherlock scrutinise his plate, suspiciously plodding at the obligingly yielding substance. "It's fish. You like fish."

"How would you know?" Squeamishly, Sherlock picks at his food with the fork prongs, dislodging a sprig of parsley to the brink of his plate.

"I know a lot of things," John counters. "You'd be amazed."

"Perfect. Amaze me," says Sherlock, mildly intrigued.

John humphed, "Well, let me think. You love sweets, even though you try your damnedest to hide it. You keep a jar of lollipops under your bed."

"Have you been scavenging in my room?" asks Sherlock, indignantly.

"No," replies John, his voice tranquil. "Unlike certain people – let's not point at them – who ransack through other people's possessions without as much as asking and who barge into their bedrooms without as much as knocking."

"Only when I have to," says Holmes, slightly offended by the accusation.

"Sure," nods John in mock-agreement. "Anyway, I haven't been in your room. It's you who told me about it." John hurries to continue before Sherlock has the chance to interrupt, "Much like you told me that you learnt to play the violin to spite Mycroft who hates the mere sound of it, or that when you were ten you fell off a tree, which left you with a scar on your right thigh. You solved your first case at the age of twelve after noticing that the murderer was left-handed. You ran away from home when you were fifteen to embark on a journey around the world, and you were brought back home from Poland after successfully visiting France, Belgium and Germany. At the age of twenty–"

"Enough," Sherlock stops him with a grimace on his face. "I see you've studied me well. There's one 'but', though. I'm certain I've never told you any of that."

"You just don't remember. You can't remember. Those days never existed for you."

"John, that's complete drivel," he says with a gloomy frown on his knitted brow. "Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

"No. Your brother has nothing to do with this. It's hard to believe, I know. I wouldn't buy a word of that, had it not happened with me personally. I can't get out of it. It's always the 4th of December. I relive today over and over."

"It's not even funny," notes Sherlock.

"No." John shakes his head. "It's not."

~0~

Sherlock was rational to the marrow of his bones. His life was subjected to reason and logic, supported by facts in the most extensive proportions greater than anyone else's. There was no wonder that John's confession about the endless repetition of a single day brought out the most profound skepticism in Sherlock. Depending on either his mood or the time of the day, Sherlock's reaction varied from attempts to rebuff John's ridiculous joke up to sincere concern about his mental well-being.

Today, apparently, is the distrust day. Sherlock hears out the concise summary of John's version of reality, suspicion colourfully painted all over his face, and treats John's arguments with such stubborn incredulity it could merit a medal.

"Well, take Kiton for instance," John goes on, confidently. "You were surprised yourself as to how I could have such exact information about his wife and his dog. It's because I've talked to him before – just after the lecture one day as we sat in this exact café having lunch – and he told me about the treacle pie, about the Tiffany ring and a lot of other things, too."

"I'm still inclined to believe it more conceivable that Mycroft had a hand in this," says the detective, obstinately.

John can't help snorting at that – sometimes Sherlock's paranoia in regards to his older brother is mind-wrenchingly annoying.

"You're always saying that," argues John. "By the way, your brother is not even in England." Sherlock raises his brow, expecting John to continue, and John clarifies with a sigh, "You found out about it the last time you thought me and Mycroft engaged in a conspiracy. He's away on investigations somewhere in South America."

Sherlock folds his arms on his chest, ostentatiously sure of himself.

"I know my brother, John. The mere fact he is out of town does not, in the least, impede him from–"

"–scheming against you," John ends the sentence together with Sherlock. "Yes, I've heard that line." Sherlock's forehead is creased in perplexity as John, smirking mirthfully, starts spooning up his cherry pie. "It's not the first time I'm telling you about this, and at this juncture I remember all of your counter-arguments by heart."

"Is that so? I suppose you discovered a way to convince me then?"

"Indeed. I predict what's going to happen next. Even Mycroft is not so powerful as to know in advance what a certain individual is going to do at a certain moment of time."

Leaning back against the chair, Sherlock gives John all his undivided attention.

"Fine. Let's see how accurate your predictions are."

"Hm," John reflects for a moment. "Usually you stay home all day or go to Bart's to do your experiments. You're bored, in a nutshell. Although, today you caught me by surprise showing up in Scotland Yard – you never did that before. I think it's because of my ciphered message. It's the first time I sent it to you."

"I was bored, and you offered me a riddle," Sherlock explains, shrugging.

"So, now I'm not sure what your next moves are going to be if you come back home. But I know for sure what happens if you go to Bart's…"

John tells Sherlock everything he dredges up from his memory: what Molly is going to wear and what she's going to say, what corpse Sherlock is going to get as his plaything, what results he's going to achievein the laboratory and other detailed minutiae.

"I see, you spend a lot of time with me," Sherlock summarises as soon as John takes a pause. "What about Sarah? Aren't you going to see her today?"

"No," replies John, curtly.

There's a faint smile spreading across Sherlock's face.

"You got bored with her," he announces, ever so smug.

"Probably." John knows what Sherlock is getting at. "Mind you, it's not that I don't get bored with you. After all, it's the same bloody day on repeat. If I ever want to break the monotony, I have to count only on my own imagination."

"I'm never boring!" Sherlock opposes him, disgruntled.

"Usually, you are not," John can't hold back a smile at Sherlock's reaction. "Especially, when you do your experiments or hide human organs in the fridge, but you've got to agree that after seeing it on a daily basis, one can't really be caught unawares anymore."

John's acceptance of the day on rewind, his own eternal short circuit, transpires through a variety of stages: curiosity, anger, bitterness, apathy, resignation. The thought of making the best of it and learning things is not the quickest one to enter his mind. At first, John went with the flow, not really attempting to alter anything. He was assiduously going to his work, asking Sarah out on a date. Then he switched his attention to Sherlock, trying to prove to him the appalling realityof what was happening, or aiding Sherlock in his experiments. Soon enough, it also became a routine, every day groove, and, at length, John decided to widen his outlook.

"That explains the lecture on criminalistics," notes Sherlock, lifting up his chin knowingly, as John patiently reveals the crux of the matter. "I see. What else have you planned for today?"

John shrugs.

"Nothing special. I was going to visit an exhibition hosted by the Royal Academy of Art, then I thought of going back home to make us dinner, maybe reading something later."

"An exhibition you say?"

"Yes, I reckoned it could do me good to enrich my mind with some cultural knowledge."

A few seconds pass in silence as Sherlock ponders over something in his mind, slowly nodding.

"Excellent. Let's check this theory. If your story proves to be right, it's going to be much more exciting than the experiments at Bart's."

John, of course, has nothing against. After draining their teacups, they pay for the lunch and stride away in different directions as soon as they reach a parting point. John goes to the exhibition to feast his eyes upon the finest works of Hungarian State Museum of Modern Art brought to London, whilst Sherlock makes his way to Bart's, determined to stultify John's ludicrous idea.

Two hours later John's mobile buzzes with a new message: "I believe you. Come home. SH." John decides he has had a sufficient modicum of cultural knowledge to dwell upon for one day, so he leaves the museum and catches a cab. Later on, while waiting out a line in the nearest to their apartment grocery shop "Tesco" – he needed to buy something to make dinner, the fridge was annoyingly empty every time he woke up – John receives another text: "You should be home by now. Where are you? SH." Rolling his eyes, John types him back: "Soon. JW." The next message from Sherlock has a warning inside: "If you're not coming back right now, I'm going to experiment with potassium nitrate. In the kitchen. SH." John smiles as he answers: "Just another half an hour. JW."

When John comes back and opens the door to their living room, soaked to the thread and ice-cold to the touch, Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, slumped next to the lit fireplace, his computer cosily nestled in his lap.

"Ghastly weather," comments John as he puts the rustling package bags at the kitchen door in the corridor. "As soon as this diabolical rewind comes to its long-awaited end, I'm going to depart for the warmer place, sun-furnished at one's convenience. I can't stand getting all wet through under all that downpour." Taking off his jacket, John lightly shakes it in the air, sending a little drizzle over the corridor before hanging it up. "There's only upside to this. I don't have to worry about catching a cold."

"Why?" asks Sherlock, his interest piqued.

"Because even if I get sick I'm going to wake up tomorrow in fine fettle again." John disappears in the kitchen along with the bags.

There were no visible changes applied to the kitchen during his absence: half the table was still liberated from flasks and beakers, and the fridge, thankfully, wasn't burdened with new bodily parts. Sherlock is never predictable: returning home from the university, he could successfully smuggle out a human head. Contended with the inspection, John pulls the comestibles out on the table.

"That is one of the peculiarities of this… time loop?" Sherlock appears on the threshold, keeping up with the conversation.

John nods in assent.

"Exactly. Whatever happens before, the morning brings everything back to normal. My health condition, too. It's one of the paltriest positive sides to the whole thing."

"Have you checked it?" Something about Sherlock's voice compels John look at him. Sherlock, his eyes narrowed, intently waits for an answer.

"Well, not on purpose, of course," replies John and, raising his hand in the air, he clenches and unclenches his digits. "Once I hurt my wrist quite badly, and the next morning it was just fine." John elides the details of him smashing his fist against the bathroom mirror in a fit of rage when he realised he was helpless to change anything. "Not even a trace left."

Sherlock falls into a meaningful silence which gives off an impression that he holds back a question he wants an answer to, so John decides to break the lull himself:

"Is there something else?"

Sherlock makes a step forward. The air immediately starts to feel leaden and thick.

"And you never experienced the temptation to ascertain just how potent this endless day reality of yours is?" inquires Sherlock, his voice deep. "You've never wondered what would happen if you take it to the end?"

John swallows.

"You mean suicide?" he asks very quietly.

Part 4

"Yes, John. Have you ever considered suicide as a means of solving your problem?"

Sherlock's stance radiates such tension it compels John to shrink back, pressing against the cold door of the fridge. His intimidating posture sends a chill down John's spine, and he can't recall ever seeing his friend like that. The detective's angular features bear a resemblance to a bird of prey, his light eyes pinning John to the spot like a needle piercing through a butterfly. The tautness of his face and the accurate enunciation of the question he delivers make it suddenly frighteningly clear why Sergeant Donovan still thinks it prudent to warn everyone about "that freak". Had he not known Sherlock well enough, it would be quite an opportune moment to presume he carries a threat. Instead, John lifts his chin up and, holding Sherlock's odd, laser-like gaze, responds:

"I've had my share of bad days even before this—"He makes an intricate, noncommittal gesture with his hand, fishing for a proper phrasing, "—devilry. It was especially hard after Afghanistan. It's a common problem among former soldiers who come back from hot spots. We've had to endure a lot of things, and life often seemed to have no meaning; it seemed easier to just end it off than continue this sort of existence. Most of us have probably thought about suicide as a means of solving all problems at a blow. I wasn't an exception." Sherlock lets out a sharp breath, and John hurries to add: "But, Sherlock, I'm not just a soldier, I'm a doctor. My duty is to help, not to kill, even if it is my life at question. Suicide is an easy way out, and I'm not a coward."

"I know."

"I've seen things many have never even dreamt of, and I'm strong enough. Who knows, maybe my death will put a stop to this mishap and there will ensue the 5th of December tomorrow at last. Or it won't and it'll be the same day yet again. Or I'll be dead for real. But I'm not going to take that risk in order to just check it out. Death is the only thing I won't be able to fix. I'm going to sort it out somehow. Hopefully."

Another minute passes in suspense as Sherlock stares out a hole in him, calculating something in his mind, then all of a sudden he blinks and comes back to his usual self.

"I'm glad you understand that," he says, nodding, then turns away and vacates the kitchen.

'Well, what the hell just happened?' thinks John, sagging against the fridge, a puzzled expression stuck to his face.

That was the first time Sherlock initiated this kind of talk and in such a bizarre fashion. This day is supposed to run according to a completely different scenario – starting with the moment when Sherlock has showed up in Scotland Yard. It would sometimes go on with John telling him about his predicament at home in Baker Street, or at Bart's where they would usually verify his predictions. Sherlock conjures up theories and fires questions while John answers them painstakingly one by one, and it all has long since become quite a routine pastime to engage into. But today Sherlock has gone off the beaten path by validating the veracity of John's story on his own, thereby breaking the rut.

Straightening, John flips on the electric kettle, extracts a few variously-coloured mugs out of the cupboard and infuses tea with milk as soon as the water successfully boils up to a necessary degree. After clearing the tray off Sherlock's laboratory flasks, he stations the mugs on it instead and heads for the living room. Sherlock is sprawled out on the couch, facing the back of it, his bare feet hanging slightly in mid-air. The room has a winter chill to it, a blazing fire notwithstanding, and how Sherlock manages not to freeze is an unfathomable mystery to John.

"I made tea," he announces, gingerly placing the tray on the coffee table, royally encumbered with all kinds of newspapers and tabloid rags; Sherlock has skimmed over them in the morning while John was away.

The detective harrumphs, twitching his shoulder.

"It'll get cold," John points out. Silence. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, John perches on the edge of the couch next to Sherlock's feet. This, at length, gets a reaction out of him. Sherlock tucks his legs to himself, turning a befuddled look in John's direction. John shifts, sitting himself more comfortably, slumping against the back of the couch.

"What is it?" he asks, schooling his face into the mask of complete innocence.

"You are sitting next to me," Sherlock frowns, stating the obvious.

"Yes. So?" John reaches to take his mug off the tray.

"You've never done that before."

It's true, he hasn't. Sherlock's couch is considered an inviolable property. Any encroaching upon the space is allowable only to John and only if Sherlock settles in a chair or hangs around in the kitchen. Usually John respects this arrangement, given that Sherlock's brains work more nimbly and fruitfully if no one intrudes into his personal space. But right now John needs Sherlock to quit posing as a sociopathic detective. And for that to happen John has to pluck him out of his comfort zone.

"You just don't remember," John lies skillfully. "You mind?"

Sherlock's face is a mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

"No," he answers slowly. "No, I don't mind."

John snorts, taking a small sip of his tea.

"Alright then. Would you like to explain what just happened in the kitchen? Sherlock?"

"We talked. I was asking, you were answering."

"You were odd. Were you that much interested whether I could off myself or not just to solve the puzzle of the repeating day?"

"No!" Sherlock glances up, immediately. He sits upright, pulling his knees closer to his chest, and stares at John intently, nearly mesmerising and not breaking the eye contact. "No. On the contrary. I'd like to have your promise that you're not going to do that. Ever."

It disconcerts John even more.

"Okay. Well, I already told you I'm not going to."

"I want you to promise me."

"Alright. Only if you explain why you're making such a fuss out of it."

His eyebrows knitted in a gloomy frown, Sherlock looks at him, sulking, but then deigns to elaborate:

"You said that you were stuck in one day. Every morning, previous activities notwithstanding, you come back to where it starts," he summarises as John nods along, "But simultaneously you don't wish to live it the exact way you lived the other one."

"I've come to fully realise the true meaning of the word boredom," admits John. "When you begin shooting at the walls if nothing new happens at least for a week, well, try to imagine what it's like when the same thing expands to a couple of months. Of course, I'm trying to make every day a little bit different from the other. Maybe one day I'll find a way to fix it."

"Logical," agrees Sherlock. "But what if the problem is not with the surrounding world, but rather with yourself? Suppose every actions of yours doesn't come without a trace, that every consequence, every ramification – save for yourself – transfer to another day?"

John smiles.

"I'm not so important as to be the first cause of this universal glitch."

"You're missing the point, John," says Sherlock, flapping a hand. "Suppose I am right, and then we have an endless amount of possibilities, where, for instance, I didn't go for you to Scotland Yard, or where you didn't bring me a cup of tea," he gesticulates towards the coffee table.

"You mean the theory of parallel universes?" John suddenly understands what he was getting at.

"What is that?"

John looks at him for a second, perplexed.

"I forgot who I was talking to."

"What do you mean, you forgot?" Sherlock asks, seemingly displeased.

"I mean I forgot that this sphere of knowledge hardly occupies any room on your hard drive," John corrects himself. "It's from science fiction, an unproved theory. The gist of it is that every time a person makes a choice – to do a certain thing or not to do – the universe bifurcates in two different ones, one where it did happen and one where it did not. It's an endless equation, an infinite number of universes."

"Exactly!" exclaims Sherlock. He shifts to sit more comfortably, extending his legs, his feet brushing lightly John's thigh. "I didn't know someone even researched such a thing – they clearly had nothing better to do."

John gives him another smile.

"It's called imagination, Sherlock. But I don't understand why the sudden talk about the parallel universes. No one is capable of checking this theory anyway. Even me."

Sherlock furrows again.

"Let's suppose it is true. What happens in that version of the universe where you kill yourself on the 4th of December?" he asks, his features drawn into a glum expression.

John can almost hear the unspoken "And where I'm left alone?"

John's heart skips a beat. Sherlock never displays his feelings; maybe he never knew how, maybe he tried to forget, but it is in those rare moments when he does choose to express his affection and lets his guard down that John realises living with him is worth it and he can very well reconcile with Sherlock's whims and antics.

"Alright. I promise," he says at last.

Sherlock's lip curves into a slight smile.

Silence hangs in the air for a few minutes as John drains his tea while Sherlock is deep in thoughts and musings. His previous ruminations have led him to quite eccentric inferences, and John's curiosity willingly falls prey:

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Blinking, Sherlock looks up at him. His eyes light up with a playful sparkle.

"Is it that much that you value my genius, John?" he inquires in mock offense.

John laughs.

"God forbid! They are priceless – no doubt about that."

"Exactly. Don't forget about it."

"As if," John sniggers. "Still, what were thinking about?"

"Boredom."

"Could've figured that out myself," mutters John under his breath. "Well, turn on the TV. There is—" he casts a quick glance at his wrist watch, "In ten minutes there is a programme about pheromone influence on the human organism. You mentioned earlier that it's instructive enough to write a fact or two on your hard drive."

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise.

"Thanks for the advice. Although, by thinking about boredom I meant you, above all."

"Me?" repeats John.

"You said that this day rewinds itself over and over again – for months in a row."

"It's been one hundred thirty days so far," John confirms, a morose note ringing in his voice.

Sherlock nods.

"And you've had all that time, undoubtedly, to memorise the principal, keystone moments of this day – who says what and who does what. Naturally, you let me verify the precision of your story by myself, having predicted what was going to happen with me at Bart's. It verges on the impossible to baffle you with anything – since you've seen it all, and on numerous occasions. You're bored. You divert yourself with going to the lectures and exhibitions – and those are not the kind of places you spend your spare time at on the usual basis. Sarah grew to be so unbearably tedious you don't even wish to see her, while earlier you precipitated to her as soon as a free evening loomed ahead of you."

John asks, suspicious: "Where is this going?"

"I suppose, even my actions you can list out minute by minute, can't you? You've demonstrated it today eloquently enough. Yet even though you said that you get bored with me as well, I haven't noticed you being bored."

'Noticed?' thinks John. 'I don't shoot at the walls and neither do I try to blow up our kitchen when Lestrade has nothing for us to investigate. What's there to notice?'

Out loud, he says: "It's because today you were different. You've showed up at Scotland Yard, you started talking about suicide, right now you're thinking up things I haven't…"

"I wouldn't have come for you, had it not been for your ciphered message."

"I just wanted to entertain you for a moment, Sherlock. I honestly don't understand where you're going with this," John admits, sounding a little upset.

"How many of those days you stayed with me, John? Undoubtedly, enough for you to remember what I do or say. Yet today you've quite easily resigned to the prospect of telling me about this phenomenon of yours all over again. Hence, I can draw only one conclusion – you haven't talked to me in such a long time that even this didn't seem too boring to you. When was the last time you explained anything to me?"

John's forehead is creased as he counts the days, pensively.

"I don't know for sure. Three weeks? Maybe a bit more."

"Three weeks?" Sherlock repeats. "I see."

He wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself, turns away from John facing the back of the couch, and draws his knees to his chest again.

"Sherlock?" John calls him, tentatively. No response. "What's wrong?"

The detective twitches his shoulder.

"Nothing." He remains silent for a second till he decides to clarify: "It's nothing. My flatmate has just been ignoring me for nearly a month."

Flabbergasted, John stares at him, his mouth agape.

"Come on, now. Are you actually upset with me?"

"Nonsense," says Sherlock, his voice crestfallen. "What's there to be upset about?"

"I can't believe it. You're upset," John repeats, still taken aback. "You're such a child, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous."

Silence. John can't stop thinking that Sherlock's behaviour is exceptionally weird today. What's with all the miff? And for such a trifle. Is it not for Sherlock that he goes to the lectures and learnt to cook decent food? Is it not for Sherlock that he reads manuals on chemistry, criminalistics and God knows what else in the evening? Taking a deep sigh, John gets up on his feet. If Sherlock wants to be upset, suit himself, John won't come in the way. He is just about to leave the living room as the detective's small voice reaches him from behind:

"John."

John lingers in the doorway, turning back. Maybe Sherlock finally saw the absurdity of his ways.

"What?"

"Get me the remote."

As if. Pigs might fly sooner.

"Get it yourself," John replies, his tone sharp, and goes upstairs to his room.

While he disrobes to change into his home clothes, Sherlock's behaviour doesn't leave his mind. It's not that earlier Sherlock was easy to handle, no, he still is the most difficult and contradictory human being John has ever encountered. But never before did Sherlock behave in such a peculiar fashion. Who would've thought it. He was upset with John for not spending enough time with him! What are they, kindergarteners? On the other hand, John would've lied, if he'd said that he didn't experience a slight satisfaction from the fact; no one else's attention is worth to Sherlock as much as John's. What has he ever done to deserve it?

Rolling the sleeves of his warm, furry jumper up to his elbows, John shuffles his way back downstairs. Sherlock's watching the TV, ignoring him assiduously, and John, having picked up the tray with an untouched mug of now cold tea, heads for the kitchen. Without much haste, he lays the comestibles out on the table, cuts the chicken in chubby pieces, puts a frying pan onto the stove, then washes the carrots, peels off onions, and prepares peas. Angelo has taught him very simple, but very delicious recipes: turns out, the chicken with tin canned peas as a garnish – is mind-blowingly fantastic. He hears television buzzings reaching him from the living room and sometimes recites out loud the phrases he has memorised by now.

As the stove starts filling the kitchen with the mouth-watering aroma, his mobile rings. John knows it's Sarah. She's worried about his health and always checks on him, asking about his well-being. Nice, sweet Sarah. John calms her down, promising to be right on duty tomorrow, and hangs up. The hubbub of the television programme coming from the living room slightly increases to its previous level, and John smiles, realising that Sherlock has clicked the volume down to listen up to him talking with Sarah.

In half an hour the kitchen is ready, the dishes are washed, and tea is infused again.

"Sherlock," John calls out. "Are you going to have dinner?"

A few minutes tick by, and as John is just about to resign to the detective's decision to give him a cold shoulder for the rest of the evening when Sherlock appears in the doorway.

"I thought you were angry with me," he says with caution.

John shrugs.

"Why would I be? You sometimes ignore me too, so I don't see anything strange about it. Although, it honestly flatters me that you decided to get upset about me not spending with you enough time. Which is not true, by the way. Dinner?"

Sherlock gives him a long, intent stare, then sits at the table. A beaming smile spreads over John's face as he thinks that the conflict is placated without any blood shedding, and the peace is restored.

~0~

The evening for the tenants of 221B Baker Street passes in a calm and rather pacific stillness. After dinner Sherlock stays at home; he sprawls out on the couch gluing himself to his computer, and John suddenly realises that every time he tells Sherlock about the repetitive day, Sherlock always keeps him company, although in other times he prefers to experiment with corpses in the morgue or spends time in his chemical laboratory at Bart's. Now John begins to grasp the reason behind it; Sherlock is afraid of John growing bored of him just like he did of Sarah.

"You mind if I borrow one of your books?" John asks. Sherlock looks up at him, a curious expression on his face, and John feels embarrassed and clarifies: "I'm still self-perfecting."

"I think you're already perfect. But, sure, if you must, go ahead."

It embarrasses John even more, but Sherlock rapidly turns away, burying his eyes into the monitor again. After standing in perplexed silence for a few seconds John decides to not pay much mind to the detective's odd remark. He pulls an encyclopaedia of venomous plants out of the bookcase adjacent to the fireplace, unrolls the woolen plaid and settles in the chair. Stealthily, by the corner of his eye, he notices Sherlock's posture relax, his bare feet, crossed in the ankles, start swinging back and forth while he types away on the keyboard. Smiling to himself, John finds a page he has stopped at days before and plunges into the thickets of alkaloid-containing plants and their effects on human body.

Beyond all doubt, John would rather spend the evening somewhat differently, other than sitting by the fire reading a book and answering Sherlock's accidental questions. But there's no sense in updating his blog, and there's nothing to watch on television since more or less interesting programmes were all learnt by heart by now, and the majority of movies of earlier times he has missed out on because of his military service and later injury has been also already seen. There were times John spent all day drinking himself to oblivion at the pub on the other side of the street, but as soon as he has resigned to the dejection that befell him from the inability and helplessness of ever changing anything, now John usually deters from going out of the warm house and under the dank downpour for a dubious pleasure of blissful intoxication. His relationship with Sarah has gone up in flames, so John just prefers to stay in.

The only satisfactory outcome of the whole disaster is reading; thankfully, Sherlock has quite an impressive collection of books. Observing his flatmate John found out what kind of knowledge occupies his 'hard drive': nothing on literature, philosophy and show-business; botany, biology, geology, physics or history – only partially; however, anatomy, chemistry, geography, jurisprudence, criminalistics and criminology are studied to the extraordinary depths. He has a vast phalanx of books and manuals pertaining to the last categories. One by one, John peruses them, gradually familiarising himself with the nuts and bolts of various disciplines. He has no delusions about his mental faculties – he is never going to reach the brilliant intellectual heights of his friend. Sherlock is an unparalleled genius; even specialists sometimes fail to contend with the sharpness of his mind and make fools of themselves next to him. Still, John would like to be someone better than an errand boy, a housekeeper and, at times, a bodyguard.

"You have no need for organic chemistry right now. Take ballistics instead," Sherlock speaks up, out of the blue. "Besides, with your track record it would be easier and faster to grasp."

"Yes, you're right," John replies, nodding pensively. Then he almost jumps in his chair, turning abruptly to face Sherlock, "Wait, how did you know what I was thinking?"

Sherlock beams with contented smugness. He gets up from the couch, crosses the living room and settles in the chair opposite John's, tucking his legs under himself.

"I've been watching you for the last five minutes – from the moment you sighed and closed the volume on poisons." Sherlock gesticulates to the manual lying shut in John's lap. "After that, you looked at the bookcase, apparently deciding to read something else. The upper shelve contains books on organic chemistry, the lower one - on criminalistics. You glanced twice up and down, choosing the material, and finally stopped at criminalistics. As you very well see, to infer from it the purported train of your thoughts wasn't that much a leap."

"Yes, but how did you know I was thinking about ballistics in particular? You have a lot of books on other similar subjects."

"The title of the ballistics manual is best visible from the spot where you sit – its gilt binder reflects the fire flames. Besides, you started to rub your shoulder in the place you were injured. The reaction was automatic as soon as you thought of the weaponry. Putting two and two together, I reached the reasonable conclusion which you've just proved right with your answer."

"Amazing!" John looks at Sherlock in pure wonderment. "When you explain it, it does seem easy, but sounds like you're practically reading my mind."

"It's not difficult. With a lot of practice everyone can do it," the detective notes.

"I don't know. I think it'll take time," John shakes his hand, uncertainly. "I'm afraid I'll grow old before mastering this skill."

"Nonsense," Sherlock snorts. "I have confidence in you. Let's try to figure out what I am thinking right now."

"Hm," John tilts his head to one side, acquiring a spitting resemblance to a curious bird, watching Sherlock with close attention. Sherlock looks back at him, with keen intent, and John smiles a slightly embarrassed smile. "Well, I suppose you're thinking about me. You are looking at me," he begins, the tone of his voice unsure.

"Perfect. What else?"

"Maybe… Maybe it's connected with the repeated day? It's that what most intrigues you, right?"

"Very well. What else?"

"Well… maybe you wanted to know what I've been doing this whole time?" John suggests at a guess. Sherlock shrugs his shoulders in an indefinite gesture while John ponders a moment on what else could be of interest to the detective at that minute until it hits him: "Wait, does it even work if a person knows that someone's trying to figure out what he is thinking?"

"Of course not."

"Sherlock!" John exclaims, his voice indignant. "Don't play tricks on me."

Sherlock offers him a smile.

"But you've got it, haven't you? Although, I can say that you were moving in the correct direction. I was hoping to find something out, indeed."

Heaving a moderately irritated sigh, John soon mollifies; he can't honestly stay angry with Sherlock for a long time.

"Alright. What was it you wanted to know?"

"Which steps have you taken in order to fix the continuing day?"

Collecting his thoughts, John explains his idea of having to do something that will eventually trigger the mechanism and fix the endless rigmarole of the same day. He talks some more about the absence of catastrophes, major crashed, or terrible murders and about his self-improvement. He lists out what he has been doing all that time.

"Well, everything I could do – I've already tried," he sums up at last, a despondent note in his voice. "I'm afraid I have to just accept it and flow with the tide."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, mulling it over.

"I suppose I've given you some advice before as to what you could do about it?"

"Of course," John nods. To tell the truth, he's held out a lot of hope on Sherlock. If not a genius, who else could ever help him get through this misfortune? Alas, even Sherlock's ideas haven't yielded any fruits in the fight against the glitch in the universe. "It didn't work." John shifts his gaze from the detective's thoughtful face to the flame, sizzling in a peaceful dance in the fireplace, and fetches a sigh.

Sherlock remains silent for some time.

"Maybe you've taken the wrong turn from the very beginning," he says, at length.

"How do you mean?"

"You've done everything in your power to fix it, right? Something reasonable, something logical that would be expected from you. You presume that a right deed is going to interrupt the rewind. But what if it's this precise reasoning that is false? What if you try the exact opposite?"

John frowns.

"Are you suggesting I should kill someone rather than save?" he inquires, skeptically.

"I don't think such strict measures are needed. Just do something no one expects you to."

"It all sounds very complicated," says John, exasperated by now. "I don't get it what you're hinting at."

Sherlock springs to his feet and extends a hand to John.

"Get up," he commands.

"Why?" John asks, already accepting Sherlock's hand and standing upright. "Alright. What is it you've come up with this time? What should I do that no one expects of me?"

"I better show you." Sherlock takes a step forward, and John is about to recoil as he bumps into the back of the chair, and there's nowhere to retreat. "For instance, this."

That saying, Sherlock tilts his head to one side and kisses him.

Part 5

John's eyes flicker open at the measured, periodic beeping, fairly recognisable to every doctor and, technically speaking, to everyone who has ever come across movies with people who are hospitalised and put under monitored care. That's why, as soon as the sight in front of his bleary vision clears into a white, achromatic ceiling, John already knows he's in a hospital ward. His heartbeat changes, its rate mildly elevating, and John expects a nurse to pop in any second. What's happened to him?

Shortly afterwards the mystery duly unfolds, revealing its uninteresting, common place explanation: during the course of one of their banal criminal pursuits, John managed to earn himself a craniocerebral injury, in the aftermath thereof he spent a fortnight in a state of coma. Further details are later discovered and elaborated, not without Sherlock's help; his friend coming to check on him forty minutes after John woke up. Sherlock looks pale, although it might be just his usual countenance intensified by the bleached surroundings of the ward.

"I'm glad to see that you're okay," says Sherlock, carefully settling on the brink of the hospital bed and resolutely ignoring the visitor's chair. "The prognosis wasn't very optimistic."

John's forehead is slightly wrinkled at the last remark, bandages that tightly encased his head incapacitating him from being too expressive. Sherlock seems to have been worried about him. Interesting.

"I'm not easy to get rid of," John says, shrugging. "Well, care to share with me what you've been doing all that time while I was unconscious? Is the flat still inhabitable? What's in the fridge?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curves up a little.

"Baker Street's the same. A few dead mice in the fridge, though."

"I don't even want to know why they're there. I hope as soon as I'm discharged, you will get rid of them."

"I can't promise anything." Sherlock shrugs, smirking.

It's all back to normal. They talk, they smile, they exchange jibes and taunts – nothing's changed. John doesn't mention the dream he saw in a coma. Sherlock doesn't mention he visited him so frequently that half the medical staff already tacitly abhorred his person – courtesy was never Sherlock's forte.

John is discharged in a couple of days, and over the course of that uneventful waiting he strongly forbids himself to even think about the perennial misadventure he has just disembarked from.

Later on, Sherlock takes him home. If this was the Sherlock from his coma land, John would've said that he fussed over him like a mother hen. But this Sherlock doesn't give off the impression of appreciating John's attention and nor does he take it into his head to talk about suicide and, of course, this Sherlock never kissed him. It has been plainly just an incredibly vivid dream. His subconscious was in charge and was to be held responsible for imagining things differently, for imagining Sherlock differently from the person he really was.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asks him, out of the blue.

John fights back a shiver, realising he's been staring at Sherlock this whole time, and averts his eyes, turning to gaze out of the window of the cab at the everyday scenery that drifted by in a dull flux of identical houses and rattling vehicles.

"I'm thinking about dreams," replies John, "and their impact on our subconscious."

Sherlock just lets a dismissive noise at that, bringing an end to their barely started conversation.

As a matter of fact, John has been thinking about dreams. What can be said about his subconscious, if he thinks he has been woken up by Sherlock kissing him in his dream?

Baker Street is the same old Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greets them cheerfully at the threshold, pulling John in a tight embrace. She came to see him at the hospital the other day, but she greets him like he's been absent for ages.

"John, dear," she keeps saying as they make their way upstairs, enter, and John finally plumps down on a chair next to the fireplace, "You should rest, I'm going to make you tea. But only today, I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock sits in the chair opposite John's, not bothering to take off his coat.

John offers him a smile.

"Good to be home."

It's all back to normal.

~0~

The alarm bursts out ringing at six thirty on the dot. John bolts awake, engulfed in the most distressful sense of déjà vu, flicks an anxious glance at the date and, relieved, blissfully flops back onto the pillows.

It's all been just a dream.

Sarah has granted him a week's leave due to his injury, and John has nowhere to rush to. He doesn't feel much enthused about staying in bed for long and, at length, forces himself to scrabble out of the warm blankets. When minutes later he is in the shower, John makes plans for the day. He has to, he just has to go and buy a new alarm clock. The old one gives him creeps.

After meticulously making his bed and putting some fresh clothes on, John finally pads his way downstairs into the living room.

Predictably, Sherlock is not sleeping – he hunches at the desk and types away on his computer.

"Morning," says John. "Tea?"

"Yes," nods Sherlock, not sparing a glance in John's direction.

John trudges into the kitchen, places a kettle on the stove and ventures a glimpse inside the fridge.

"Sherlock?" he calls out, cautiously. "What's with all the food in here?"

"A horde of people stormed by to pay a social call while you were comatose. Apparently, they reckoned their duty to drag along almost half the supply of the local grocery shop, which frankly doesn't strike me as being an immediate circumstantial illation, for I see no logical connection between the two."

John snorts.

"Well, tell everyone you wouldn't be able to cook anything if your life depended on it. Though, sometimes it really does depend on it," he makes a noncommittal sound and inspects the interior of the fridge. Amongst the cornucopia of comestibles, they appear to have fresh milk, eggs and a miniature jar of strawberry jam.

Narrowing his eyes skeptically, John pulls a rustling package of flour out of the cupboard. Come on, it can't be true, can it? But the batter poured into the bowl blends just swimmingly, and the first pancake comes out practically perfect. John dislocates it onto a plate, stations the plate onto the table and examines it, suspiciously. Sherlock enters the kitchen to catch him doing just that.

"Is something wrong with it?" he inquires.

"I can't make pancakes," explains John, still inspecting the obvious proof to the contrary.

"It's too thick for a crêpe," notes Sherlock.

"I can't make those either. I'm generally not very good at cooking."

Sherlock steps up closer, rolls the thick crêpe into a tube and bites off the half of it.

"It's good," he announces his verdict, masticating. "Almost like at Angelo's."

Switching the stove off, John returns to the living room and settles in a chair. From the spot where he sits he can distinguish the gilt binder of the book on the lower shelf. He bounds to his feet, tugs the book out, and doesn't feel surprised at seeing its title that reads "Interior Ballistics of Guns".

"What's with the sudden interest in ballistics? And go finish your pancakes. They're good." Sherlock has followed him into the room and now keeps talking.

John looks up at him with a distracted expression on his face.

"I think I've been discharged too soon," he gets out at last.

"Why?" Sherlock arches a brow.

"I must be going insane." John stows the book into its cranny and sits back, sagging into the depths of the chair. "Did you really learn to play the violin because of Mycroft?"

Sherlock perches on the chair opposite, giving John a long, attentive look.

"It's not Mycroft who told you about it, is it?"

John runs a hand over his head, rubbing the place where he's been hit.

"No," he replies. "That's what I'm talking about. I dreamt of it while I was in a coma."

"You dreamt of it," Sherlock echoes him, his voice impassive.

That's when the levee breaks. His thoughts and words intermingling in a chaotic medley, John tells Sherlock about the day that would never end and about his futile attempts to snap out of it. He tells about the pancakes, about the lectures on criminalistics, about the private lessons he's been taking, about lunches in a café and everything else. Making a clean breast of it and running out of breath, John finally trails off and glances up at Sherlock, visibly preoccupied.

"I can't cook, Sherlock, and I've just made pancakes without any difficulty. I'm fairly sure I can cook chicken, too, and mushrooms, and fish, because Angelo has taught me all of it in my dream. In a dream, you understand? Besides, what about all those facts about you I know; about the jar of sweets, about Mycroft, or about your first case…? How can you explain all that?"

Sherlock harrumphs, deep in thought, watching John with utmost curiosity as though he was a rare specimen or a part of one of his numerous experiments.

"Oh God," sighs John, wiping a hand over his brow. "I've gone insane. Either that or I'm still in a coma dreaming all this."

His sight is still barricaded from the outer world, a palm over his eyes, as John hears Sherlock getting up from his chair and walking towards him.

"Hey!" exclaims John when Sherlock pinches his shoulder, hard. "What was that for?"

"I just wanted to assure you that this is not a dream. I heard it helps. How are you?"

Lowering his hand, John looks up at Sherlock.

"How am I what?"

"Are you sure now you're not dreaming? From my part I can tell you that I do exist. I exist in the real world. Although I have some kind of an explanation for your dream."

"How do you mean?"

"Your doctor said that while you're in a comatose state there is a chance you're able to hear people talking to you."

"There's a theory about that, yes," John nods.

"Well, I talked," explains Sherlock.

John is speechless. His eyes widened, he stares at Sherlock. Sherlock averts his eyes.

"I've been reading random books to you which happened to be within reach. Frankly speaking, I've spent a lot of time here. I take no responsibility for pancakes, though."

"What, did Angelo come to see me, too?" John gawks at him, still astonished.

"Ask him yourself," suggests Sherlock while taking a seat on the couch. His movements give John the impression that Sherlock intentionally avoids making eye contact; probably embarrassed at his previous confession.

"Well, okay," mutters John in an undertone.

For some time silence takes its reign over the room as John tries to make head or tail of what he has just heard. Sherlock was actually worried about him, worried enough to have spent so much time next to his unconscious body entertaining him, speaking to him, without even being sure his talking wasn't falling on a deaf ear. It was so uncharacteristic of Sherlock that John had a hard time believing it. Sherlock's concern sends a warm sensation spreading over his ribcage: he would hardly do anything like that for a person of no importance to him. Of course, John has been long accustomed to the idea that Sherlock humoured him more than everyone else put together, but such confirmation of his affection almost puts John out of ease.

He is waiting for the lump in his throat to dissolve before standing up and approaching Sherlock. The detective sets his mobile aside and gazes up at him in question.

"Thank you," says John, his voice slightly hoarse. "I'm glad you've been with me all that time."

Sherlock nods, calmly.

"I'm glad you're here with me now," he admits.

John smiles lightly at that.

"Well, I better go finish my pancakes then."

John returns to the kitchen, starts mixing the batter again, and cooks further.

The whole thing has turned out in the oddest way possible. Should he tell someone, they wouldn't believe a word of it, neither about Sherlock nor his dream. There is also one moment which doesn't leave his mind: why would he dream Sherlock kissing him? John is one hundred percent sure that he hasn't even thought of that before. On the contrary, he was so dumbstruck at the gesture that he might have woken up just thanks to that. Like he was some sleeping beauty or something, for God's sake.

He turns off a stove burner and slowly comes back to the living room.

"John?" Sherlock asks, turning, as soon as John reaches the couch. "Is something wrong?"

"You see," he begins, "there was something else in my dream. I think I've got to make sure if it was real as well."

With that, he leans forwards and kisses Sherlock Holmes.

FIN