Chapter Text
REMEMBER OUR ALTER FRIENDS:
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JOHN- Our jumper wrapped kittenish blogger, Sherlocks husband and all round good guy. Unless you upset him. Then he gets BAMF.
UNDERJOHN- The one who does not speak out loud. He helps bring the other Alters forward and creates new ones if needed.
SLEEPINGJOHN- Protects the body when it is sleeping or hypnotised. Usually has a knife under John's pillow.
HAMISH- The James Bond of the Alters. Intelligent, gorgeous, unflappable, always has something wise to say.
FLIRT- The sexy Alter who propositions anything in trousers. Up for "Fanfic character of the year" if such an award existed.[amended: Flirt flirts with anyone. Anyone at all.]
ROBIN- The alter that represents John's murdered ten year old twin brother Jack.
THEFURYANDTHEFEAR- the scary, violent, angry one that Moriarty calls "Firecracker" because...he has his reasons, okay!? Fury is the only Heterosexual Alter. (Apart from Robin who, at ten, has no designated sexuality).
JUDE- The rude French one who smokes, likes big guns, and cares about no-ones feelings. When he speaks I do asterisks (*"blah blah blah"*) cos I cannot do Italics to indicate he is speaking French.
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RIFT
AN ALTERVERSE ADVENTURE
CHAPTER ONE: A eleven.
Sherlock fairly danced up the stairs to 221B. His homeless network and he had finally tracked down the Stradivarius Wiggins had "accidentally" stolen and swapped out the fake one from under the owner's nose, saving the homeless man from gaol time. Well, he did like shiny things and he had no idea the Straddy was worth so much.
"For a posh mandolin Shezza?" He had asked, incredulously. Sherlock had smiled and winked.
"You know us upper class Wiggy, more money than sense. No more nicking items I have to slip back, okay? You could have been in really big trouble. Legal trouble. People are strange about antiques."
Wiggins had nodded, but Sherlock rather thought perhaps he may be talking to a brick wall. Bill meant no harm, really, just had very little direction early in his life.
And so now, back to Baker Street, to John, and maybe dinner. He had left John with the morning papers, and the possibility of a jig saw puzzle, and a new book he wanted to read. Something about cults, but a fictional one. John had had his fill of real ones, Sherlock knew, but how people loved to feel special and belong to groups, tribes, gangs, in an outside of society, "I have a secret" sort of way.
Both John and Sherlock drew the line at blood-letting cults and ones that encouraged cannibalism. And that one that carved up Lestrade's chest. That was terrible...
But apparently books about PRETEND cults and secret societies were alright.
Sherlock swept into the flat, swooping his coat off like a bullfighters cape and hanging it on the hook.
"John, I'm back, and the Straddy is where it belongs."
The silence that greeted him was not unheard of. John could be well into his book. Or napping. It was not unusual, especially after the last few months. Life with Dissociative Identity Disorder was exciting but sometimes his husband needed a rest. Just a small one.
"John?"
Silence. Sherlock stepped into the lounge room and was instantly on alert. In mere seconds he took in the scene before him.
The coffee table was destroyed, there was newspaper scattered around the floor....and was that a boot print in the wall? A John sized boot print in fact...?
Sherlocks gaze skipped over the spilled tea and broken cups to rest on the figure laid crumpled on the floor. It was his John.
He was laying on his side, in a strange sort of question mark shape. One of his fists was clamped tight around a section of newspaper, and his head and spine curled inwards, as if protecting his middle but he had been interrupted in this motion, leaving his legs out straight. As Sherlock suspected, there was wall plaster on the toe of one of his boots.
Dropping to his knees beside his husband Sherlock further noted that there was dried blood on the knuckles of the hand that clenched the paper, and cuts on three of the four uppermost knuckles, suggesting that John had used his fist to punch the coffee table, folding it in half, strewing tea and cups and magazines along the floor.
Sherlock brushed the hair from Johns face to note that his ice-blue eyes were cracked to a slit but he was not awake. His breathing was slow and steady but his jaw was clenched and Sherlock could see John's heart pounding in his neck and chest under the tight T-shirt and black leather jacket he wore. Boots and jacket on....was he dressed to leave? If so, where?
"John?" Sherlock whispered, brushing his thumb over one of John's eyebrows. John breathed out a kind of moan, as if he wanted to say a word but it was stuck in his throat.
Sherlock was well practiced in the many men that inhabited his husbands body, and so he asked, gently:
"Who's here now? Who has control of TheBody?"
John's throat did that moany thing again and Sherlock paused thoughtfully. There was always someone there, someone in control, but right now it seemed John was shut down. Could that even happen? Could NO-ONE be in control of TheBody?
"What's happened John..." Sherlock whispered then. He ran his hand down Johns arm and gently pried the blood stained hand open. He slid the clutched piece of paper from his husband's grip and smoothed it on the floor.
"TWINS MISSING, FEARED KIDNAPPED..."
It was just a small article, very thin on details, and Sherlock was flummoxed as to why John would freak out and kick stuff...then he realised, it was probably not JOHN but one of his ALTERS who had freaked out and kicked stuff.
Leaning back to kiss his husband on the forehead he murmered:
"Who did this...and why? What's wrong? Please, let me help you all, you know how much I love you.."
John moaned with his whole chest, and rolled his eyes. They opened and finally, FINALLY, Sherlock was looking into the eyes of the man he loved. Well, the eyes of ONE of the men he loved.
"Sherlock...." Came the tiny voice of Robin.
"Robin...did you..?" Sherlock indicated the detestation of the lounge room.
"I tried to stop him. Promise."
"Course you did sweetheart. I know you would try your very best." Sherlock assured the little boy.
"I'm too little. Again. Too little to stop him."
Sherlock nodded. It must have been Fury who trashed the room.
"It's not your job to stop him Robin. Other Alters do that job."
"It wasn't and Alter Sherlock." Robin said, lip wobbling
"Oh God..." Sherlock panicked. Had someone broken in, assaulted John-
"It was John."
Sherlock clamped his jaw shut in surprise.
"John did this?"
Robin nodded slowly, eyes wide.
"John got so angry...and then, we all tried to stop him from leaving, and...I think we crowded him cos all of a sudden he was on the ground and none of us could get him to move..."
Sherlock nodded. The idea that Johns Alters overloaded him had merit then. And from the looks of it, it had had the desired effect. It stopped John in his tracks and Sherlock was very grateful for that. John would have been hard to find in a city as big as London, despite Mycroft's surveillance.
"What upset him Robin, can you tell me?" Sherlock asked, petting Robin's hair in a fatherly way. Robin was only ten and it seemed tonight he had been asked to be a bit more grown up than a ten year old should be. Sherlock's instincts were to sooth and calm the little boy and it worked nicely. Robin relaxed under his hand.
"The twins. The missing twins. It brought back memories of him and Jack...that's me, remember, only he called me Robin."
"I remember sweetheart." Sherlock said. "You and he were very close."
"Twins are connected in a weird way. Real weird. You know, it was hard for John when I left-"
Sherlock nodded. Robin didn't leave, he was killed. By their father. But Sherlock was not going to bring that up, despite it being a "true fact", because if John had taught him anything it was tact, and who better to be tactful to than a scared ten year old boy?
"And you think maybe this article triggered something?" Sherlock asked. Robins little face twisted.
"You know how you have a number system, and you won't leave the flat for anything under a four?" Robin asked.
"I do." Sherlock nodded.
"And ten is a locked door murder or serial killer?"
Sherlock nodded again, feeling uneasy.
"This is uh ELEVEN." Robin whispered urgently and buried his face in Sherlocks jacket.
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