Chapter Text
Joan Watson knew that something was wrong the moment that she woke up.
There were several clues that tipped her off. One was the fact that she was not in her own bed, judging by how she seemed to be lying on a floor and staring up at a ceiling. Two was the smell of burning hair (not her own, thank god). Three was the pale, dark-haired man staring down at her with a look of puzzlement and interest on his face, and a smouldering clump of hair held by a pair of tongs in his hand.
“What are you doing in my flat?” The man asked, with a British accent. Joan tried to sit up, but quickly lay back down with a groan. Her head was pounding. “How did you get in here? You haven’t picked the lock, I’d have heard. Did John let you in? You don’t have any of his hairs on your shirt, and he wouldn’t let one of his dates sleep on the floor, so who are you?” Joan groaned, and sat up more slowly.
“Where am I?” she asked. The tall man (and he was tall. A solid ten inches taller than Joan herself, she figured) glared down at her.
“221B Baker Street. London. My kitchen floor.” Hold the phone.
“London? As in London, England?” The tall man rolled his eyes, and Joan was momentarily reminded of her own roommate.
“Yes, as in London, England. Why, where did you think you were? Have you been drugged? What’s the last thing you remember?” Joan’s brain did its very best to sort through the impossible situation and come up with answers. She remained on the floor, in case standing would lead to fainting. Thankfully, she appeared to be wearing her day clothes, and not her pyjamas.
“When I went to sleep last night, I was in New York, in the USA. I don’t know if I’ve been drugged, but my head hurts like a son of a bitch, and the last thing I remember is going to bed.” The tall man looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded, and then turned and yelled,
“JOHN! COME DOWNSTAIRS! THERE’S A WOMAN IN OUR FLAT AND I THINK SHE’S BEEN DRUGGED!” Joan started at the sudden noise (which did absolutely nothing good to her poor head) and pulled herself to her feet. The man was obviously waiting for someone to answer him, but there was no reply. "JOHN?"
"God, stop yelling!" Joan demanded, "Who's John?"
"My flatmate. He's a doctor. You are, too, but you obviously haven't practised recently."
"How... how can you possibly know that? Have you kidnapped me?" The man rolled his eyes.
"Please. Your hands give away your status as a doctor, your hair and shoes tell me that you haven't practised recently. Where the hell is John?" He pulled out a cell phone and began texting furiously. Joan rubbed her head, and sank down into a kitchen chair. Moments later, her own phone went off.
Whr r u? Man n hse. Frm UK. Clms nme John Watson. Rltn of urs?
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to parse out meaning from Sherlock's ridiculous text speak. An idea dawned, but it was more than a little bit crazy. She had to ask anyway.
"Your roommate, is he named John Watson?" The tall man looked at her with eerily pale eyes and nodded. "Well, my roommate just texted me. Seems a British man by that name has somehow shown up in our house in New York." The man's eyebrows flew up.
"That's not possible. The shortest nonstop flight from Heathrow to New York is eight hours, not including time to get through both customs and security. I saw John less than six hours ago."
"Well, I went to sleep in New York less than six hours ago, if the time of my phone is right, yet here I am." The man looked irritated. His phone beeped at him, and he scowled at whatever he read there.
"This is absurd." He turned to Joan, "Is your name Joan? Joan Watson?" Joan nodded. The man made a noise of frustration. "Absolutely ridiculous. This is some sort of joke."
"What is?" Joan yelled, giving in to her own impatience.
"John claims to be in your house. He says that the man there is calling himself Sherlock Holmes."
"That would be because that's his name."
"No."
Joan was starting to think that she should probably get away from the crazy man whose apartment she had somehow ended up in. “No, what?"
"No, he's not Sherlock Holmes. He can't be."
"...because?!"
"Because I am Sherlock Holmes!" Yup, definitely crazy.
-x-X-x-
"I don't mean to be rude, seeing as I've somehow ended up in your home, but that is entirely too strange to be possible. Two Sherlocks, both consulting detectives, and two Watsons, both doctors? That is just too much of a coincidence." The other man - the other Sherlock - nodded.
"I agree, it's not a coincidence at all. Have you ever heard of the parallel universe theory of quantum mechanics, Doctor Watson?" John nodded, slowly. He had. He had also thought of it as silly sci-fi nonsense. "Well, it would seem that, somehow, two Sherlocks and two Watsons have ended up in the same universe, but with each Watson with the wrong Holmes." John put his head in his hands. This was entirely too much.
"Oh god, I've finally cracked. He's put one too many unknown substance in my coffee and I've gone completely round the twist," John moaned. Other Sherlock looked almost... concerned. The very idea of Sherlock being concerned for him just made John even more positive that he had lost his mind.
"Your Sherlock drugs you without your consent?" He sounded... curious, but definitely less than impressed.
"Just the one time," John explained, "And it actually wasn't anything but normal sugar, not that he knew that. It's complicated." He couldn't believe that he was justifying Sherlock's actions in Baskerville. "He's complicated. Mad, really, but in an endearing, want-to-punch-him-in-the-face sort of way." He should probably just stop talking. Sherlock - New York Sherlock - was squinting at him in a familiar sort of "working out every detail of your life" kind of way.
"Well, I should think the obvious solution would be to get the four of us together as soon as possible."
"Er, wouldn't it make more sense to just have your Watson and me get on planes, and return to our respective Holmes ...homes?"
"Oh, no, that won't do at all. I would very much like to meet this other Sherlock, and we still have to discover the 'whys' and 'hows' of you and Ms. Watson getting switched."
John figured that this sounded fairly reasonable, and it would definitely be interesting to get all four of them together, if only for a bit of compare and contrast. Maybe Joan Watson would have some new tricks to add to his repertoire on The Care and Management of Sherlock Holmes. "Alright, so the two of us can catch a plane to London," John said.
Sherlock froze. "Oh... yes, I suppose that... would make the most sense, seeing as three of us would be familiar with the country." He looked supremely uncomfortable.
"Everything okay?" John asked, confused by the man's sudden shift. Sherlock remained frozen for a moment, a bit of a deer-in-headlights expression on his face, and then seemed to snap out of it.
"Yes, yes, fine," he said, back to the same rather manic persona from moments earlier. He tossed John a mobile phone, quickly followed by a wallet. "You call and get us a pair of tickets, I'll pack some things for Watson and myself and find someone to look after Clyde." John was floored. A Sherlock who not only voluntarily paid for practical things, but who would pack for both himself and another person! And... Clyde?
"Who's Clyde, if you don't mind me asking?" He called after Sherlock as the other man sprinted up the stairs. He paused, and turned to flash John a smile over his shoulder.
"My tortoise." He turned away and continued to the upper floor.
Oh, of course. His tortoise.
John let out a huff, and then collapsed into a dilapidated old armchair to send Sherlock - his Sherlock - a text before calling any airlines.
NYSH and I are getting a plane to London. Will you and Joan be okay for a while? She can have my bed if she needs. It's only 5AM her time. Leftover curry in the fridge. Try not to terrify her.
It was less than a minute before he received a text in reply.
This is Joan. UKSH told me to pass his phone, despite it being right next to him, so I've taken it. Thank you for the offer of the bed, but I'll be okay. Look forward to meeting you. Your Sherlock is certainly a handful. JW
John smiled. He had the feeling that he was going to like Joan Watson.
-x-X-x-
"Give me my mobile back," he demanded. Joan gave him a dark look.
"What's the magic word?"
"Give me my phone back, or I'll call Lestrade and tell him that you're a home invader and have you arrested."
"How will you call him without your phone?"
"I am more than capable of retrieving it from you. I am only refraining from doing so as John dislikes it when I use what he deems to be 'unnecessary violence'." Joan glared at him.
"I'm giving you your phone back, but not because you threatened me. I am more than capable of defending myself, should the need arise. Sherlock has been giving me lessons in self-defence. I am giving you your phone back because John has sent a text for you, and I am going to go find your bathroom." Sherlock returned a glare of his own, and snatched the proffered mobile out of her hand. She left, and, after a quick text to Lestrade about the Mulligan case, he read what John had sent. Below some inane prattle back and forth between the two Watsons was a lengthy message meant for him.
1/3 Sherlock, don't be a prat to Joan. NYSH thinks it's some sort of parallel universe thing, so she's really me from a different dimension, so anything you do or say to her
2/3 will have consequences from me. Our flight is in two hours, and we're already almost at the airport. Try to hold off on being really unpleasant before I get there. Maybe
3/3 she can help you on the Mulligan case? NYSH says she's turning into a very competent detective in her own right. See you soon, don't burn down the flat.
Sherlock snorted. As if he would need help on the Mulligan case! Still, the parallel universe theory did sound very interesting, if a tad absurd... He grabbed his laptop and several of his more esoteric books on physics before getting comfortable on the sofa. Joan emerged from the loo moments later, and stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the sitting room.
“Well, I can say this much, you and my Sherlock both appear to have the same stance on housekeeping.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wonder how else you’re like my Sherlock.”
“We both used cocaine and some form of opiates,” he answered frankly. To her credit, Joan took this information with nothing more than a small nod of her head.
“Any chance you’re going to share how you knew that?”
“The way you surreptitiously glanced at my arms and took in the faint scars of track marks without any note of surprise. The protective way that you speak of ‘your’ Sherlock. Also, I looked through your phone earlier, and saw some old texts that referenced ‘meetings’ and ‘sponsors’, common terminology in reference to sobriety programs, though not in reference to yourself, so for another person.” Joan looked exasperated but not terribly surprised that he had looked through her phone. Another trait apparently shared between both Sherlocks. “As for which drugs, I simply assumed that, if the other Sherlock and I are at all alike, we probably sought similar substances for similar purposes.”
“You also share a talent for tact,” Joan added sarcastically, then her voice turned gentle as she asked, “You’re doing okay now? Are you in a program?” Sherlock huffed with derision.
“No. I did my time in rehab, but there is absolutely no way that anyone could force me to attend those maudlin meetings and listen to insipid morons ramble on about their boring lives. I’m clean.” He paused for a moment, then added softly, “John would leave if I weren’t.”
Joan nodded, a slight softness in her expression, then asked, “What are you reading about?”
“Quantum mechanics, the theory of universal wavefunction, and the Planck constant.” He held up one of the thick volumes of text, showing a cover with a picture of black space interspersed with stars. “I’ve never given it much thought, as it seemed rather irrelevant, but if it’s going to start causing my flatmate to pop up on the other side of the ocean, then I suppose that I should learn a little more about the many-worlds interpretation.”
Joan tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’m not an expert, but I took some physics courses during my undergrad. Scooch over, I’d like to have a look at some of those books, too.” Sherlock obliged, though he didn’t particularly enjoy being told to “scooch”. Nor did he appreciate the little moue of distaste on Joan’s face as she pushed a stack of newspapers to the side to make room for her feet on the chair opposite.
“Those are important research material for a case,” he complained.
“Oh, stuff it. Read your books and stop whining. God, John must be a saint to put up with you.” Sherlock glared at her, but she wasn’t watching him. The worst part was, he was inclined to agree. He knew he was difficult to live with, and really couldn’t understand why John had stuck around for so long.