Holmses and Watsons

Title: Holmses and Watsons
Author(s): Starluff/Stellinia
Rating: G
Character(s)/Pairings: Watson and Holmes (three different versions XD
Summary: John had not been having a good day, even before he met two different versions of himself.
Warnings: None, just a bucket load of crack!
Word Count: 1670

John had not been having a very good day. It was sad that Sherlock, his best friend, had a habit of giving John bad days, just as much as he is capable of giving him some of the best days of his life, but perhaps that was just life balancing out.

In any case, John had not been happy earlier. He and Sherlock had been on the same case for a week and had hit dead end after dead end, and it was affecting Sherlock negatively. Challenges were great for Sherlock but this one had cut quite deeply; according to him, nothing made sense. It was one of those few times when Sherlock was completely baffled, and, naturally, he had not enjoyed the feeling. John's mission for the week had been simply to try and keep Sherlock alive, whether by trying to get him to eat and sleep, or to keep him from getting murdered by calming down people who had the misfortune of getting in his way. John had been taxed to the limit and was quite fed up. Then, Sherlock had made a deduction that he absolutely refused to share with anyone else, not even John. Which, honestly, pissed John off, but he was smart enough not to say anything. So he followed quietly and waited for the climax before saying anything. By 'saying', he was thinking more along the lines of yelling and berating, and deciding exactly what he was going to tell the arrogant oaf was one of the things that had made him able to get through the day.

Sherlock took John (as was his habit) to the police station and demanded to be shown a seemingly-insignificant piece of evidence: a wrist watch. Then, instead of running off somewhere else, instead of looking at the watch and deducing who had last owned the watch and who his brother was and who was having an affair with who, Sherlock had decided to go home. All the way back to Baker Street, he had muttered cryptic words, and repeated his favorite saying, "once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," as if to convince himself of the possibilities. Again, John had done nothing but keep silent and wait.

Finally, they were back. Rudely ignoring Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock ran up the stairs, taking them three at a time, with John pointedly going at a normal speed. There, he immediately flung himself into the couch (he was incapable of sitting down when he was excited) and stared at the watch. By the time John reached him, Sherlock seemed to have made up his mind on what to do.

"Come here, John," he said without looking up. Sighing, John decided he was too tired to argue, so he went over. When Sherlock held out his hand, John took it. Then, Sherlock had pressed a button on the watch.

Everything went black.

Now, John was just about coming to consciousness. He considered just lying there, because the floor is really quite comfortable and he didn't relish the idea of facing Sherlock again, but it was because of Sherlock that he fights to wake up. His thoughts were muddled and confused, and he couldn't make out the difference between reality and dream, the way one does when they're dream is rudely interrupted. The surprising thing was, before he even screwed up his face or groaned in an effort to wake up, he heard someone say, "it would seem that your Watson is coming to, Benedict."

"Yes, I noticed," was that Sherlock? Did that man call him Benedict?

Intrigued, John made an extra effort and this time managed it to actually open his eyes. After a moment, the hazy blurs took shape, in the form of Sherlock, looking at him with seeming indifference – John knew better, though; if Sherlock didn't care, why would he be checking his pulse, as he was doing? John blinked the remaining haziness from his eyes and sat up slowly, clutching his head as it began to throb.

He was sitting in a room with one...two...three...five other people. John noticed that two of the men had dark hair and eyes, while the other two both had blond hair and blue eyes, like himself. An odd coincidence but John didn't really think about it much. Where were they, anyway?

The room was...odd, too. It had seemed a bit small, but that was only because the darkness was so thick and abrupt at both ends that they seemed like walls. Upon closer inspection, Watson decided that the place looked like a hallway of questionable length. It couldn't have been more 60 square meters or so, if you consider the shadows walls.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said cheerfully, once John's pulse seemed to have satisfied him, "it took you long enough. I hope you don't mind that name Martin?"

"Mar – wait, what?" John felt that it was in his right to ask dumb questions when the person in front of him was being particularly stingy with his information.

"He decided that he would give you the name of Martin, quite of his own accord," replied one of the dark haired men said. His whole look gave a vibe of messiness, with unkempt, curly hair and dressed in shirtsleeves.

There was a blond man beside him who looked more tidy than the dark-haired man, with a neat trimmed mustache and close-cropped hair. He had a certain stern, tough look to him, though his eyes betrayed a measure of humour. He snorted, "as if you didn't give me my name without consulting me."

"And what's wrong with Jude?" The dark-haired man shot back. The two had the air of two friends who did this a lot and were likely to go on for a while, so John quickly cut in, "guys! Hey! I'd like some answers here, what's going on?! What's this about names?"

"It would seem, John, that that wrist watch sent us to another dimension. These men here are actually our counter-parts: these two are me from two different dimensions, two Sherlock Holmes," he gestured to the two dark-haired men, "while these two are John Watsons," here, he pointed to the two blond men. One, the one called Jude it would seem, smiled sympathetically, while the other smiled in greeting.

John paused to count to ten, then decided he should count up to thirty instead. When he was done, he took a deep breath and said, "what, like in the comic books?" Because, if John were to be honest, Sherlock never lied and this seemed too far-fetched, even for Sherlock to come up with. For now, John would hang his disbelief for a moment and try to figure out what was going on.

"So it would seem," Sherlock replied and looked like he was about to say more but John cut him off.

"So you two," John pointed at the two dark-haired men, and noticed that the third had the only straight hair out of the three, and had a certain...class and refinement about him that might have made John aware of his own casual jumper, if he happened to be in the mood to care at the moment, "are both Sherlock Holmes?"

They nodded their assent and John quickly continued before they could get any words out, "are you all opposites, or are you all the same? Are you all consulting detectives? Smug, arrogant geniuses?"

"The works," the neatly-trimmed blond man replied, and smiled pleasantly at the three pairs of piercing, slightly miffed gazes directed at him.

John paused for a moment before saying, "dear god, there are three of you? Isn't one enough?"

The neatly-trimmed man burst out laughing, while his companion frowned, "that's what you said!"

Just when John thought his head would never stop spinning, the third and last blond man stood up and made his way over to him. He looked prim and proper, like his companion, but his smile was wide and genuine and made John instantly like him. He extended his hand and, in the movement, John felt some feeling of calm at the recognizable action, and took it. The man helped him up and, when John made sure he was steady on his feet, shook the hand he held. "Hello. My name is John Watson, though I suppose you already know that. Me, you, and that fellow over there all share, not only the same name, but also the same identity. No, I don't understand it anymore than you do, but living with Holmes for so many years has taught me to only ask questions at the climax, as I'm sure you've learned as well. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Better, yeah, thanks," John replied, hoping the true extent of his gratitude was conveyed.

"About the name Martin," the man continued, "we decided a while ago that it might be convenient if we each chose a different name, seeing as how we all share the same. For example, I christened myself David," the side of his lip twitched, "and my own Holmes called himself Jeremy," here he gestured to the Holmes who had been next to him, the one with the straight hair and sardonic grin. "Over there," he gestured to the messy Holmes and Watson, "that Holmes took the liberty of naming his friend Jude, and Jude got annoyed, so he decided it was only fair to name Holmes himself, and he chose Robert."

"I refused to be called Francis," Robert/Holmes muttered with his nose in the air. Jude/Watson smirked.

"I decided to call myself Benedict," John's Sherlock said, seeming a bit annoyed that David was hogging all the attention, "and I thought that Martin would suit you."

"I, er," John didn't feel like he wanted to accept the fact that Sherlock had named him but he didn't see any problem with the name, so he just shrugged. "Okay, so I'm Martin. Nice to meet you guys." He gave an overly exaggerated wave.

"So, uh, what now?"