Time Warp. (1/?)

Mrs Hudson did all but break the door in at 221B. It was Saturday and early, she knew that, but the two strange, yet finely dressed gentlemen, obviously did not. Of course they were here to see Sherlock Holmes and his champion, John Watson, and the landlady was in no mood to entertain for them.

Eventually, a very tired John answered the door glad only in a pair of boxers and Sherlock's ratty dressing gown.

“It's 7.15 am.” He yawned, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“You have guests.” Mrs Hudson snapped.

John gazed upon the two men standing being the landlady. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. They were not your ordinary morning callers and, in truth, he was expecting Lestrade and that bitch, Sally. The tallest one, whom featured an out-of-date blonde moustache, was by far the finest dressed in contrast to his short, scruffy champion. John raised an eyebrow.

“I've got this, Mrs Hudson. Thank you.” He answered.

She mumbled something about 'ungodly hours' and squeezed by the two gentlemen. John welcomed them into the flat, taking good care to observe each of them as they shuffled past. When safely inside, both stood motionless in the middle of the floor, staring at their host and keeping surprisingly little distance between them.

“It's 7 in the bloody morning. Does Moriarty have nothing better to do with himself? No girlfriend to shag? No buildings to blow up?” John muttered.

“Pardon?” The tallest asked.

“Well!?” John spat, “What is it he wants this time? I suppose it's that other git you want and not me?”

“I really have no idea what you are talking about.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He gestured to the sofa and waited for both men to take a seat.

“We – I- don't have the energy or patience for this. Just tell me what he wants, or what he has done or is going to do, and kindly bugger off.”

“This is 221B Baker street, isn't it?” The shorter of the two asked raising an eyebrow.

John jumped, he didn't know what sound of voice he was expecting to emerge from the short man's throat but it certainly wasn't that.

“Er – yes. It is.”

The shorter stood, “Then this is our house. Get out!”

“Excuse me? This is mine and Sherlock's flat -”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I'm John Watson!” he wandered over to the mantle where the skull sat, “And this is Skull. And you two are accomplices of Moriarty.

The two men exchanged worried glances. The taller stood also.

“I am Doctor John Watson and this is Detective Sherlock Holmes.” He said.

“Well, that's excellent. Couldn't the devil be more inventive with his schemes rather than sending two dressed up, pantomime impersonators. Who, by the way, look nothing like me or Sherlock.”

“You must be mistaken, old boy, we are Watson and Holmes.” the taller said.

“And we are not dressed up, I'll have you know, I happen to like this waistcoat.” the shorter added.

“Actually, that's mine.”

“Barter system.”

John sat down upon his arm chair, the other pair retreated back to the couch at the same time. He stared at them, they returned the favour. After several moments of silence, and mental deduction from 'Sherlock Holmes', John broke the ice.

“So, where are you from?” he asked.

“London, 1891.” Holmes answered, “And the date now?”

“2010.”

“We've come forward over a century. Most fascinating!” Holmes grinned.

Watson held his head in his hands, “I knew that fiend was up to something!” he mumbled.

“Oh, pish posh, we can clear that up when we get back.”

“If we get back!”

“Ah.”

“I'm sorry,” John interrupted, “But whom?”

“Lord Blackwood. He's a supposed master of the dark arts. The bugger had risen from the grave and my self and Watson here were sent on his tail. But I do believe we are victims of one of his experiments.”

“Yeah, the mice are often saying that about Sherlock's.” John muttered.

The faint clicking of a door handle and the shuffle of bare feet could be heard in the hallway. Sherlock came into the living room, yawning and stretching like a Cheshire cat.

“Good morning.”

John blushed and hid his face behind his hand. Sherlock was stark naked, not a stitch of clothing covering his body; not even socks.

“Oh,” the consulting detective added, “People.”

“Yes Sherlock, people.”

“I do believe I need boxers.”

“No shit. Maybe a pair of jeans as well.”

The detective bounced off back to the bedroom. John studied the rather shocked expressions of the two gentlemen and prayed to god that they weren't offended.

“Well,” Holmes said, “He isn't disappointing.”

Watson promptly elbowed him in the ribs and shook his head, obviously embarrassed. He gave John a 'you were both thinking it' look.

“Yes, well, tea then?” John rose from his armchair to make tea in the kitchen.

He could hear the hushed bickering over the boiling of the kettle and he found himself trying not to giggle. The all to familiar baritones of Sherlock's voice hit his ears. He shuddered to think what the man was saying.

“Sherlock,” he called, “Help me with the tea.”

“I'm not your wife!”

“And I'm not yours!”

Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, clothed in just a pair of denim jeans. He gave John a nasty look.

“So, what's the story?” He asked while fetching four mugs from the 'only-for-drinking' shelf.

“Dark magic gone wrong. They were on a case following some bloke called Backwood. Apparently he's sent them from 1891. Funny thing? The the tallest, with the little blond mouth- eyebrow (Sherlock giggled at the reference) is called John Watson. The other is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “That is fascinating. And you believe it?”

“Well, of course I do.” John peered around the corner to see the two gentle men talking softly to each other, “It seems pretty legit.”

“Legit -? John, it's impossible. I won't have this. These are men of Moriarty, or another of my arch enemies. Perhaps Mycroft playing a joke. It's ridiculous.”

“No, no I have a feeling. I mean they seem generally confused by everything.”

“Acting, John.”

“How do you suppose we prove it?”

“Blood tests. Some sort of DNA test at least,” Sherlock paced the floor with his chin between his fingers, “ Questions, lots of questions.”

“Right.” John asked the two men about tea preference before turning back to his flatmate, “ Well I'll leave all that stuff to you then. I'm convinced but you go ahead and pick at every small detail like you always do. I mean we have -”

“I'll let you fuck me doggie style if you help.” Sherlock smiled.

“Done.”

Tea was distributed in the living room. Sherlock took the armchair opposite John's and pulled it in closer to the sofa. John followed suit. The consulting detective commenced his hawk like stare.

“Is he deducing us?!” Holmes snapped, “ Stop that!”

“No. This is our flat and I will deduce you if I so wish. You aren't with Moriarty. Who do you work for?”

“We-”Watson started.

“No. Never mind. How foolish of me to think you will actually answer truthfully. If you are not with Moriarty, and I doubt my brother would use a trick like this, you must be common lunatics. Case closed.” Sherlock sat back in the chair, looking please with himself.

“Mycroft would certainly have more taste than sending two goons in 'pantomime' clothing.” Holmes answered, “However, you sir could not be more incorrect. We are not common lunatics, we are who we say we are. Look, “He reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved an assortment of papers, “Betting papers, dated 1891, January 7^th. Doctor John Watson is the signature.” He passed them to John and sat back, “Deduce that!.”

“Could be a trick.” Sherlock answered.

“Ah, but it also could not.”

The two Sherlock's stared at each other, neither blinking. Watson gave John a worried glance, then nudged his friend between the ribs. He gave a small yelp.

“How do you propose we prove are selves?” Watson asked the younger Sherlock.

“Bloods, hair – anything that can match your DNA to ours. And questions.”

“And if we refuse?” Holmes snapped, earning another nudge.

“My flatmate here will make you.”

John shot a look at Sherlock; this was his idea of helping? Sherlock sat like any mastermind would, fingertips joined together in a tower, legs crossed at the knee, eyes focused on the 'enemy.'

The other Sherlock had one arm draped along the back of the sofa, and his legs spread wide. It occurred to John that both men contrasted each other in not only appearance but also presence. Holmes was shabby and very laid back, while Sherlock was up tight, clean cut and designer. In truth, John had to admit that Holmes was a stunning specimen, by which he meant he was incredibly arousing.

It wasn't until he felt Sherlock's hand nudge him gently on the shoulder that he realised he was staring. He glanced up to see a very unamused expression upon the consulting detective's face.

“Back with us, then?” he snapped, “Really, John. Do pay attention.”

“Yes, right. What am I meant to be paying attention to?”

“DNA tests, today at Bart's. I need your blood.” Sherlock snaked his hand into John's, sensing his disapproval at the mere mention of getting blood taken, “Only a pin prick. I promise.”

“So, is this a close friendship or should we expect something romantic?” Holmes asked.

“We are partners, yes. What of it?” Sherlock snapped back.

The detective raised both hands defensively.

“I was merely asking, old boy. It's nothing to me what you two gentle do behind closed doors, in bedrooms, on a bed.”

“Or table.” Sherlock added with a smirk.