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Dopplegangland

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They always say there’s someone out there who looks just like you. And John and Sherlock can certainly attest to that. The consulting detective and his doctor learned that fact better than anyone when they made a pilgrimage to Scotland for a case.

Well of course, brilliant Sherlock solved the case in no time, but the boys decided to stay awhile and take a little respite for themselves, since it was so rare that they got a vacation. So they were sitting in a little coffee shop in Glasgow, relaxing and congratulating themselves on another job well done. John offered to order them some drinks, and Sherlock distractedly agreed, intensely focused on the newspaper he had his nose shoved into. That was where the real trouble began.

Sherlock heard a familiar creak in the chair beside him. “Well, that was fast,” he commented without looking up.

“Well I came over as soon as I saw you,” said John in a Scottish accent.

Sherlock snorted in mild amusement. “When in Rome, speak as the Romans do, eh?”

“Dunno what you mean that. Don’t tell me a gorgeous fella like you’s sittin’ here all by yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, even though he blushed behind his paper. John loved to tease him, but he didn’t realize what an effect it had on him. “Practicing your pickup lines on me now?”

“Could be. Did it work?”

“It might have, if I didn’t know perfectly well you prefer women.”

“How do you know what I prefer? You don’t even know my name,” John laughed.

“What on Earth are you…?” Sherlock put down the paper to give his companion The Eye, but he paused when he caught sight of him. “I thought you shaved this morning.”

The John in front of him didn’t quite match Sherlock’s expectation. His jumper was dark blue instead oatmeal-colored (showcasing his denim eyes fabulously). His hair wasn’t as militaristically combed down as usual, but fluffed up playfully with gel. And somehow, he’d grown a ginger scuff of a beard that suddenly had Sherlock wanting John to rub it all over his naked body. It was much nicer than that awful mustache he’d grown that one time. And most inexplicably, he had a green and white scarf draped over his shoulders that Sherlock was sure John did not own.

John shrugged and replied to Sherlock’s shaving comment in that hypnotic Scottish brogue, “I haven’t shaved in a couple o’ days. People seem to like the scruff.” He winked flirtatiously at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at John in confusion. “What is going-”

“What the hell?” declared another John voice from behind him, this one properly English and more familiar than the utterances of this…temptingly rugged lothario in front of him.

Sherlock twisted around in his chair. There was his John, in his oatmeal jumper, holding two steaming mugs and staring at the other John with just as much confusion on his face that Sherlock felt at the moment.

“Sherlock,” said English John slowly. “You didn’t steal some of my DNA and clone me, did you?”

The Scottish John burst into laughter. “Fuckin’ hell!” he exclaimed. “What are the odds? I come over to chat up this sexy piece of arse and he’s dating my bloody twin!”

“You were chatting me up?” “We’re not dating.” Sherlock and John respectively responded at the same time.

“I think we should start over,” said John. “I’m John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Who are you?”

“Iain MacKelpie, pleased to make your acquaintance.” Iain turned his grin back to Sherlock. “’Specially you, sweetness.”

Sherlock blushed. “I feel a bit foolish. I should have realized you weren’t my friend. I’m normally quite perceptive when it comes to detail.”

“Oh, ‘friend’? So, not together then? Good to know.” Iain seemed pleased.

“Yeah, okay, we get it…Pepe Le Pew,” said John in annoyance as he sat down. “Did you have a reason to be over here, or did you just want to harass my friend?”

“He’s not harassing me,” said Sherlock defensively.

“He’s over here giving you unwanted attention, that’s harassment,” John insisted.

“It’s not… unwanted,” Sherlock mumbled, taking a sip of his coffee to hide his face.

Iain rolled his eyes and began to get up, saying, “Okay, I can see when I’m not wanted-”

“No, stay, please,” Sherlock said quickly. “Ignore him, what does he know? He’s an idiot.”

John angrily drank his coffee.

“No, I actually do have to go,” said Iain apologetically. “But if you’d like to meet up sometime…here’s my card.” He slipped a square of paper from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.

“Oh, you’re a photographer?” said Sherlock.

“Aye. Say, a beauty like you’d be a great model. If you’re not already. Are you?”

“No,” said Sherlock, blushing again at his lap. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“Well, stop by my studio sometime for a session, you’ll see what I mean.” Iain gave him a friendly smirk. “Hope we meet again, Sherlock Holmes. I better go now. Wouldn’t want to harass you.” He rolled his eyes at John and strolled out of the café with his drink, whistling cheerfully.

“Can you believe that guy?” grumbled John. “What a prat.”

“I liked him,” Sherlock admitted.

John choked. “Excuse me?! You liked someone. You.”

“Why is that so hard to comprehend?” Sherlock inquired.

“Oh, I have no idea, Mister ‘Married-To-My-Work’,” John spat. “Just that you despise everyone. Especially when they’re coming onto you.”

“I don’t despise…everyone,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well what makes him so special?” John inquired.

Sherlock sipped his coffee to stall for time. What could he tell John? That he was thrilled to have found a scruffy, Scottish version of John that was actually attracted in him? Sherlock knew he was…infatuated with his flatmate, but John had made it clear their first night together he wasn’t interested. “He possesses a certain je ne sais quoi,” Sherlock answered.

“Well, I sais quoi: he’s a scumbag, that’s what it is.”

“John, how do you know, you knew this man for less time than I did, and I think we’ve established by now that I’m a much more competent judge of character than you,” Sherlock spat.

“Okay, fine,” John smoldered. “But there’s one potentially awkward detail you’ve overlooked.”

“And that is?”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, I dunno, that he looks exactly like me?”

“There might be…a certain likeness,” Sherlock admitted carefully.

“‘A certain likeness’?” John repeated in disbelief. “Okay, either you need your eyes examined, or you’re having me on. You cannot look at that creep and tell me he doesn’t look exactly like me.”

“Maybe he does. It’s just transport.” Sherlock shrugged in what he hoped was a convincing manner.

John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t think you understand. He was coming onto you…because he wants to…get off with you. Do you understand what I’m saying? He wants to have sex. With you.”

Sherlock had finished his coffee. He set the mug down very deliberately and looked at John. “What if he does? I would be amenable. Don’t look so surprised, John, I do actually have a sex drive. And Iain is very attractive. What’s the matter?...” Sherlock leaned forward slightly. “Does that bother you?”

John swallowed. “N-no. Why would it? I don’t care.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, forcing a smile. “Then I think I will call Iain. I’ve earned a nice vacation; I’m sure we’ll have a grand old time.”

“But I-I thought you…and me…might have fun together,” said John.

“Oh, you don’t want to hang around with me,” said Sherlock casually. “I’m sure you’d rather chase around some highland lassies, eh, ‘Three Continents’? Much more fun for you to catch a handful of kilt then spending time with me.”

John swallowed. “Ye-yeah. You’re right.”

“Well then.” Sherlock raised his mug in salute. “To our sex holiday.”

John didn’t look so certain, but he clinked his mug against Sherlock’s. “To getting laid,” he agreed.


John Watson was a jealous man.

He’d been madly in love with his insane, brilliant, gorgeous flatmate practically since they’d first met, but Sherlock had shot him down so fast, John thought he’d never have a chance with him. He assumed Sherlock was asexual or aromantic or whatever. Apparently not. The Woman had been one thing, but this...!

He didn’t get it. What did that Scottish pervert have that he didn’t? Literally the only difference between John and Iain was that Iain had a beard!

“‘You must be a model, you sexy piece of arse. Why don’t you come to my studio and let me take some pervy pictures of you, sweetness?’” John mimicked to himself as he was taking a shower. God, the idea of Sherlock’s naked body being seen by that creep...

Sherlock’s naked body...

John’s prick suddenly twitched. John took the small bar of soap the hotel had supplied and started running it all over his body. He closed his eyes.

He could imagine the soap being in bigger hands, musician’s hands, as trails of lather trailed over his body. The soap, the bumpy raised letters in the mold, rubbed over his nipples, and John gasped, his cock swelling even more.

Fuck it.

John slicked up his hands and let them tease his entire body, running over his belly, his hips, his arse. Then he took his needy cock in hand and stroked evenly, sudsing it up, pretending it was Sherlock touching him.

“Ohh...” John moaned quietly, glad the loud rush of water could hide his sounds of pleasure.

In his fantasy, Sherlock was standing behind him, pressed against him, his erection nudging in between John’s arsecheeks. His long arms were wrapped around John, and he was gently, teasingly running his hand up and down John’s length, kissing his neck. John gasped and braced himself against the shower wall with one hand, continuing to pleasure himself with the other. His right hand. Sherlock was right handed. Sherlock would use his right.

Now that he was slightly bent over, John could imagine Sherlock draping himself over John’s back, rubbing himself off between his buttocks and lapping up the trickles of warm water running down John’s back. His cock was teasing John’s entrance, and he was moaning John’s name filthily, his hand speeding up on John’s cock-

John suddenly came with a shout, which he quickly covered by shoving his fist against his mouth. After a second, John heard a rap on the door. “John? Is everything alright?”

John stifled a moan as the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips, regardless of the passionlessness of his rich baritone, made his cock give a second strong burst. “I-I’m fine,” said John breathily as the aftershocks of his orgasm slowly wore off. “Just slipped a little. I’m okay.”

“Alright. Do hurry up in there, I’d like to brush my teeth sometime this evening.”

John sighed and rinsed the soap and...other stuff off of himself, then shut off the water, toweled off, changed into his pajamas, and vacated the bathroom so Sherlock could do his business. He tried to act as natural as possible, so Sherlock wouldn’t deduce that he’d been wanking to the image of him.

Fuck. Fuck.