catslash_rp | (no subject)

"Good. I'm glad."

He didn't, but he doesn't think he needs to say that.

"I was rather pleased myself."

For Sherlock's sake more than his own at the time - he reconciled himself with the possibility of his own death some time ago, in Afghanistan - but pleased nonetheless.

"I don't understand what has happened," he blurts out, frustrated.

"Now that," says Strat, "I quite possibly can help with."

"Can you?"

If anyone can, of course, Sherlock can.

Whatever version of Sherlock it might be.

"Tell me what the trouble is and we'll see."

He thinks this over, trying to find the most concise and coherent way to put it.

It takes some time, but he doesn't rush himself. He knows Sherlock prefers an accurate answer to a hasty one.

"I seem to have been in two places at once," he says finally. "As does my entire world."

"Really."

He nods slowly.

"What did I say before? 2008? Ish?"

"More or less Great Britain, probably 2008 (http://mm-catslash.livejournal.com/872.html?thread=7784#t7784)," he quotes.

"It's 2010," he says. "Saxon never happened. I'm not dead. But as soon as I walked in here, I remembered all of it. How is that possible?"

"Magic," he suggests. "Time travel. Alternate realities."

"No magic in my world," John dismisses. "Sherlock would have found out by now." And mentioned it.

Probably.

"I'll grant you that. Two related theories remaining, and we know damn well one of them obtains."

"I don't think I've done any time travelling lately."

Surely he would have noticed.

Leaving aside the fact that technically he just did...

"What if you were not the one who travelled?"

John's expression turns a bit wry.

"I suppose there are about six billion other possible candidates," he concedes.

"Indeed there are. And since no two theorists seem to agree on how the universes handle that sort of thing..." He shrugs.

"Maybe someone went and stepped on a butterfly."

Only instead of breaking the world, it improved it.

It's as likely as anything else John might come up with.

"Or something of the kind," Strat agrees. "So, has Sherlock started stealing your clothes yet?"

He'll talk to his own Sherlock about it when he gets back, he thinks. Maybe Sherlock has his own set of latent memories that needs a nudge.

And if it doesn't work quite like that, then Sherlock is at least the only person John knows who won't make a discreet phone call to the nearest insane asylum after the conversation is done.

"I don't think it's dramatic enough for him," he says, "though if anyone could swoop in an oatmeal-colored jumper, it'd be Sherlock."

"Does he swoop? I am not sure I have ever managed swooping," Strat says thoughtfully.

John snorts.

"When doesn't he swoop," he says. "He claims his jacket is some old thing he picked up for a case, but I think he had it tailored to maximize its swooping potential."

He had an extremely entertaining conversation with Sergeant Donovan once on that very theme, after a giddy three days without sleep. He will never forget the hyper-dignified look Sherlock gave them when they burst into giggles upon his approach. (He is, in fact, smiling fondly to himself at the memory right now.)

"I would not put it past him. I was always such a vain creature."

(- but what happened to Sally Donovan in that other version of their world? He never met her. Lestrade never spoke of her. Lestrade never spoke of anyone who wasn't still alive.)

His expression sobers.

"He does insist on making a certain impression," he says, "for all he pretends not to care."

"Yes," he murmurs. "That sounds about right."