This is why you helped me
Sherlock blinked in the darkness and shivered. He must fall asleep while thinking. The fire had been out for hours, and the living room was frozen. The detective stood from the couch and went to the kitchen, still lost in resolving the complicated case he was dealing with, three murders at close range, with no connection between the victims that he could have found out about.
He made tea, taking care not to make any noise. John was a very light sleeper, and they went to bed late, chasing one of the suspects. It had been exhausting, but the man provided them with a vital clue to solve the case.
Leaning against the counter, he drank slowly, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar hiss and turned around. Stephen Strange was sitting at the table, looking through the microscope.
It had been three months since their wedding, and Sherlock kept fearing it could turn out to be a dream at any moment, from which he would wake up and alone at Baker Street.
But that never happened. Instead, Sherlock woke each morning, cuddled to John. He would never suspect he liked to cuddle, but hugging John's body every night made him feel safe and alive, both tired and happy after slowly and tenderly making love. His pattern sleeps improved since the wedding because falling asleep in John's arms was fantastic.
He chuckled. The Supreme Sorcerer looked at him, raising his gaze from the microscope. He smiled as he could read Sherlock's mind.
"May I have a coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee?"
"Believe it or not, I am as human as you are, and I wouldn't mind having a big black coffee cup. With milk. No sugar".
"Exactly as John."
Stephen nodded.
They both sipped their drinks in silence.
"I'm guessing this isn't a courtesy visit."
"No, I'm here to collect the favor you owe me."
"And what do you want?"
"Your first son," his deep and threatening voice rumbled through the kitchen.
Seconds later, he burst in laughs, pointing at Sherlock's shocked face.
"I'm sorry," Stephen bubbled between laughs, raising his hands in a sign of apology. "I couldn't help it. You should have seen your face".
"Very funny," muttered Sherlock, angry.
"Sorry again. I know John, and you are thinking of adopting a child, and I couldn't help it".
"How…? Never mind," Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He wasn't used to people deducing him, "So?"
"I need your help to find someone."
It was Sherlock's turn to laugh out loud, but looking at Strange's pissed off face, he held himself.
"You can't be serious. You…are a sorcerer or whatever you call yourself. Why would you need my help?"
Strange moved his head from side to side.
"What is wrong?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It seems I can deduce you here in my world."
"This is my world, also," Strange stirred and frowned when his cloak moved from his back, moved towards the detective, and, standing next to him, motioned its fabric like it was folding his arms across his chest, mirroring Sherlock's gesture.
"Now you take his side?" Stephen asked, upset.
The cloak ignored him, fascinated with Sherlock, intently looking at it, not puzzled or scared, as people used to, but with genuine scientific curiosity, so it adopted a smug air. Sherlock touched the fabric, and the cloak shivered as if the detective had tickled it.
"I need both John's and your help."
"Why?"
Strange snapped a picture and laid it out for the detective. Sherlock looked at the photograph and gasped. The man in it was John. He was wearing a blue suit and red tie instead of his usual jumpers and was combed backward, but otherwise, it was undoubtedly, John.
"What the hell kind of joke is this?"
"This is not your John Watson. This is Everet Ross. He is a CIA operative. Before joining the CIA, he was enrolled in the United States Air Force".
"Are you kidding? Forget that".
"Two weeks ago, he began investigating an anomaly in the space-time continuum. Since then, we have not heard from him again."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking at the sorcerer.
"So, this is why you helped me."
Strange shook his head. Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Finally, he nodded slightly.
"You... reminded me a lot, chasing an unrequited love, suffering in silence, pretending everything was alright when your heart was breaking into pieces. I know how it is. So I thought if I gave you a second chance...".
"You'll have your own one."
Stephen pursed his lips. Sherlock could see he was suffering. The detective knew too well what it was like love without being reciprocated.
"You said you needed my help and John's. Why?"
"In two days, an important meeting will take place. Everett is essential to the success of the negotiation. Without him, they will not negotiate and... I thought..."
"John could replace him." Strange rolled his eyes precisely as Sherlock used to do.
"He wouldn't be in danger. And he'll only have to do it if we don't find Everett first."
Sherlock bit his lower lip.
"I can't tell him the truth about... you know, your trick":
"First, I don't do tricks. I'm a sorcerer, not a cheap carnival wizard. Second, you don't have to say anything to him, but you have a new case. We don't have much time. We have to go to New York. Wake up, John."
"Are you always so bossy?"
"If you think I'm bossy, wait to meet Tony," he stood up. "Fifteen minutes."
Sherlock entered the bedroom and shook John a bit. The doctor grunted and turned to the other side.
"John, we have to go."
"What… Where?"
"New York. A new case."
"Are you mad? We already have a case.
"We go in fifteen minutes."
"At what time is the flight?"
"No flight. We… hmmm. Well, you better see it".
John rubbed his eyes and jumped from the bed. He was accustomed to Sherlock waking him up to chase suspects in the middle of his sleep, so ten minutes after, he was in the kitchen, ready to go.
He gaped, looking at Dr. Strange.
"Doc... Doc... Doctor Strange?" he stammered.
Stephen smirked and nodded briefly.
"You know him?" asked Sherlock, confused.
"Do I know him?" It's Dr. Strange. Of the Avengers!" John shook his hand with both of his, absolutely deluded. "I'm Dr. John Watson, but call me John".
"Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson."
"I used to be a trauma surgeon."
"I used to be a neurosurgeon."
Both chuckled, and Sherlock frowned, feeling the chemistry established immediately between the two of them.
"I need your help in a case, with the Avengers. I'll set a portal, and we'll move to New York in seconds".
John smiled incredulously.
"You need our help? You're the Sorcerer Supreme".
Doctor Strange blushed. His heart turned over when John came into the room. He closed his eyes and repeated himself several times that the man in front of him was not Everett until he was convinced. But it wasn't easy, the personality, the strength, everything was the same. Everything but the affection with which John looked at Sherlock. Everett would never look at him like that.
Sherlock gave the photograph to John, who looked at it, amused, wondering what joke it was.
"It's not you," said the detective.
"That man is Everet Ross. As I told your husband, he was studying a disturbance in the space-time continuum when he disappeared. We need, in case he doesn't show up for two days, for you to pose as him for twenty-four hours."
"A disturbance in the space-time continuum?" "
Yes, Bruce is studying it."
"Bruce? Bruce Banner? God! Sorry, I must look like an idiot, but I can't believe it. Sherlock! It's the Avengers!"
Sherlock looked at him blankly.
"Do you know them?"
"You really don't know who we are?" though Doctor Strange already knew it, it was difficult for him to believe it.
He opened his mouth to ask, but John dissuaded him with a gesture.
"A long story. He doesn't even know who James Bond is... well, he doesn't even know that the earth revolves around the sun..."
"John!"
Stephen laughed willingly.
"Welcome to the multiverse, Mr. Holmes. John, we'll explain everything at Avengers facilities in upstate New York," John seemed to have a fit at these words "remember you can back out at any time."
"John, you are under no obligation to do so."
"Obligation? Obligation? Sherlock, it's the Avengers!. You don't understand! You have no idea what it means to work with them. To know them!" he put his hands to his head, and the detective couldn't help but smile. John looked like a kid about to go see Santa Claus. "Ironman, Spiderman... Wow!"
"Time to go," announced Strange, chuckling.
He circularly motioned his hands, and with a hiss, a portal opened in their kitchen through which the New Avengers facility was visible.
John held himself upright, threw his shoulders back in a military manner, and crossed the portal, followed by Doctor Strange. Sherlock took his coat and his scarf and followed them.
On the other side, Jonh laughed, shocked. They were in the Avengers' headquarters! He looked at Doctor Strange and Sherlock and laughed even more. The sorcerer and the detective looked at each other, puzzled.
"You should see you both. You are like a Sherlock colored version, he with his Belstaff and you with your cloak. I should take a picture".
Sherlock pursed his lips. Why was John so... charming with Strange?
"Stop saying nonsense. We don't look anything alike," he sneered.
John and Strange burst out laughing, making Sherlock's mood even worse. The cloak tapped him on the shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him, which Sherlock rejected with a slap.
"Let's go, the sooner we find him, the sooner we get home."
"When we're done, we can stay in New York for a few days and go sightseeing. I'm sure Stephen wouldn't mind guiding us." teased John, who had realized just how jealous Sherlock was getting.
"It would be a pleasure," Strange winked at the doctor.
"Not a chance," snarled the detective.
*********
Everet Ross blinked, trying to wake up from the stupor he was in. He squeezed his eyes. He was dizzy and had a terrible headache. He tried to put his hand to the back of his head, but he couldn't.
Everett opened his eyes. He was in a dark warehouse, with only a little light coming through the metal walls' cracks. It smelled of saltpeter, and he could hear the seagulls and the sound of cranes. The agent tried to move again but could not. He was sitting in an armchair, his arms tied to his back and gagged. The pain in the back of his neck seemed to be getting worse.
Amid the mist, he remembered that mysterious character who asked him to go with him. At his refusal, he threw himself at him. They struggled and, after an intense pain in the back of his neck, he fainted.
"John," whispered a deep voice beside him.
He blinked to get used to the darkness. The stranger's features became visible little by little, and, to the surprise of the CIA agent, familiar: sharpened cheekbones, prominent lips, piercing eyes...
"Strange, what are you doing?"
"I'm sorry I hit you, John."
The man turned on a small light that forced him to blink again. He watched him in detail. Yes, it was Stephen, no doubt, but... when he had grown his hair long... And since when did he wear a black coat?"
"Who's John?"
The dark Stephen bent down in front of him and stared at him with a worried look. Then he stood and surrounded him to observe the wound on the back of his neck. Everett hissed as he brushed his fingers against it, feeling it.
"It is unlikely that the blow has given you amnesia."
"I don't have amnesia."
"Then what is it, John?"
"I'm not John."
"Stop saying that. You're John H. Watson. Physician, Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers.
"My name is Everett K. Ross, I was in the United States Air Force, and now I'm a CIA agent.
The stranger looked at him with bulging eyes.
"What the hell are you saying? What have they done to you?"
"My name is Everett K. Ross, I was in the United States Air Force, and now I'm a CIA agent."
"Stop saying that!" bellowed the stranger, his eyes wide open. He seemed terrified. "You are John H. Watson. Doctor, Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers, and you solve cases with me."
"And who are you?"
"John, it's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."
Everett frowned.
"I don't know any Sherlock Holmes," he said harshly. Although that name... rang a bell in his brain...
Sherlock scrutinized him with his eyes.
"It was Mary, wasn't it? She's forced you to forget about me. She never liked me, ever."
"Who's Mary?"
Sherlock knelt beside him again and put his hand to Everet's cheek intending to stroke him, but Everet shook his head with an abrupt gesture. A chill ran down the CIA agent's back. This Sherlock Holmes was watching him with his eyes wide open, but his gaze was out of focus as if he were in a kind of trance. His lost gaze was cold, but he could also sense a great sadness. He was worried by that John Watson, whose name he kept repeating, anguished because something happened to him.
Suddenly a door burst open, and the light almost blinded them. A man stared at them, surprised and frightened. From his clothing, he was a longshoreman of the port. Hence the smell of saltpeter. Sherlock Holmes turned and looked at him, squinting.
"Who are you?" he asked, "What are you doing here? This is private property."
"Out," hissed Holmes, his voice steely and cold.
"I said what..."
He didn't have time to finish his sentence. Holmes approached him in two strides and shot him in the forehead at point-blank range. The shot muffled Everett's cry of "no!". Sherlock Holmes bent down to look at the body that had fallen to the ground with a sharp blow, the man's face still reflecting surprise.
"Idiot," he muttered.
He turned to him. Ross realized then what he noticed in the man's eyes as well. He had no pity. The man would kill anyone who got in his way. What's more, he wouldn't hesitate to kill him as soon as he realized that he was not John.
His mind worked fast. He needed to buy time and, above all, gain the man's trust. He only had one chance to get out alive.
"Ho... Holmes?" he asked hesitantly, pretending to wake up from a dream.
Holmes turned and threw himself on the floor, kneeling before him again, scrutinizing him with those eyes that seemed to pierce him. He swallowed, trembling hands running along Everett's face. The CIA agent almost felt pity for him.
"John?"
Everett nodded slowly. Holmes tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. John Watson. Captain in the Fith Northumberland Fusiliers. And I solve cases with you".
"What do I do?"
"We solve cases," Everett held his breath. From Holmes' expression, it was clear it was not the right answer. In those cold, sad eyes, mistrust shone through.
And then it came, like a flash. He remembered what the name sounded like. In the CIA headquarters, they often try to recruit a British agent or something similar: Sherlock Holmes. According to their reports, he could deduce everything about anyone at a glance. More than once, they set an operative to recruit him into the intelligence agency. Still, always, someone from the British Government whom they had not been able to identify, would blow the operation. But no, that man was not an agent. He was..., he was..., his assistant told him, he was...
"You're the only consulting detective in the world."
Bingo. The man's eyes relaxed, though not entirely. And Everett knew the only reason Holmes hadn't figured out it wasn't Watson was that the feeling blinded him.
He lowered his head.
"I'm sorry. I'm... confused. My head hurts," he looked as if by chance at the man's body.
"What happened?"
"No time for explanations. We have to get out of here. They want to take you away from me. Again."
"Untie me, and we'll go out from here."
Holmes smirked.
"It's clear you haven't fully recovered yet. Otherwise, you'd realize I know you still don't trust me. So until you get your memory back..."
Without further ado, he blindfolded him, picked him up, and, carrying him out fireman style, took him out.
******
Lestrade, Donovan, and five more officers burst into 221B.
"The freak fled," stated an angry Donovan after running up and down the flat.
Greg put his hands in his hips.
When they received the first call that morning, ensuring Sherlock killed a man in the docks, he dismissed it. After the third call, he started worrying. Now at the empty flat, Lestrade was desperate.
"He took John with him. The witness was right," assured the sergeant, "Shit, we are late."
"Donovan, I know you are as happy as Sherlock when he has a quadruple murder case, but try to conceal it a bit."
"I knew this would happen" Sally moved around the living room, checking the scattered papers. "I knew the day when Sherlock Holmes finally showed his true face arrived. And this time, his bloody brother couldn't help him".
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, sergeant. Although I believe my brother capable of the greatest nonsense, he is not the author of these crimes, I assure you".
Donovan turned around as he heard Mycroft Holmes' voice from the door of the flat. The man looked at her with annoyance and disgust, his steely eyes fixed on her.
"Someday, sergeant, you will have to make up your mind to face your complexes and insecurities instead of blaming my little brother for your failures,' he looked sideways at Anderson,' in all spheres of your existence."
"Hey!" protested the forensic.
"Mr. Holmes," started Lestrade.
"Mycroft, please," he raised the right corner of his mouth in a gesture that intended to be a smile.
"Mycroft, nobody is accusing your brother," Donovan snorted, and both ignored her. "But we had several calls that we should check. Like you, I believe strongly in Sherlock's innocence, but as DI, I must investigate the facts".
"Of course. And rest assured, I will help you in any way I can".
Donovan frowned. Those two were flirting? Weirdly, but she could swear they were flirting.
"Sir," Anthea entered the flat, eyes glued in her phone, "we've located your brother."
"And where is he?"
"In New York."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"He can't be there. Surveillance devices indicated he was here half an hour ago, both he and Dr. Watson."
"I know, sir, but the locator doesn't fail. I've checked it twice. Sherlock Holmes is in New York.
"And what the hell did they miss there?"
Mycroft looked at Lestrade.
"Gregory... you don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you?"
Lestrade blushed a bit and shook his head.
"Gregory, I'll contact the FBI, see if my brother is indeed there. Then I'll get back to you. We can meet and share available information."
Greg nodded, puzzled, noting that what he would generally consider interference with his duties did not bother him at all.
"Of course, I am at your disposal... Mycroft."
"Great. See you later. And stop poking around in my brother's things," he ordered to the rest of the team. "I wouldn't be surprised if he'd set mouse traps among them to bother you," he smirked almost imperceptibly as if the idea amused him a lot. "Believe me. In case there was anything here you might be interested in, none of you are enough intellectually gifted as to be able to find it," he turned to Greg, "no offense."
Sherlock's older brother walked out the door, followed by Greg's gaze until Donovan cleared his throat.
"And now?"
Greg smiled.
"Let's go to the dock," he ordered, making sure his phone was working.