Mirror Mirror

Chapter 8

Regular Universe: Mirror John

Sherlock had gone into the kitchen to make tea, so John went into the loo to collect himself and wash his face. He caught his reflection in the mirror and once again marveled at his altered appearance. His mid-section certainly had a bit more pudge than he remembered. He pressed around his middle and felt no pain, not swollen but fat then. The mirror showed only about a day's growth of beard on his face. He lifted his neck up and down noticing the small double chin that had formed and patted at it dismay. Maybe he'd put on weight and not remembered? Well, he'd make time for a run later today.

The beard was an easy fix. He'd just let it grow back. He sighed and washed his face. None of the products on the counter looked familiar. In fact, they'd stopped making his favorite brand of shampoo years ago after the meltdown, but now he saw a bottle perched on the side of the tub. He picked it up and smelled the familiar scent he'd missed for so long.

"Incredible," he said to his reflection. "I really am not where I should be." Saying it out loud lent the idea credibility and last night's hallucination of moving out of his body and into another came back with clarity. This wasn't his body, this wasn't his world, and Sherlock wasn't his Dom. Something had changed, fundamentally. He'd have to gather more information for his theory, but nothing else made sense. He'd simply have to convince Sherlock he was right and not insane.

While he contemplated his circumstances, his mobile rang. The number said, "Clinic" and he answered tentatively. "Hello?"

"John, this is Sarah. Can you come in today? We need you. Big accident at a warehouse and we've got a flood of burn and smoke inhalation victims," the woman on the other end of the line said. She sounded desperate, and John's first impulse was to run right over there to help.

"Yes, I can come in," John said. Maybe this might be a good way to ease into working at the clinic. The place would be chaotic, and his co-workers might not notice any unusual behavior. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Oh, thank God," she said and rang off.

John grinned. He liked the idea of being so necessary to someone else besides Sherlock. His Dom usually railroaded him into only being available to service his every need, no matter how trivial. It amazed him that this Sherlock allowed him to work at another job, and have his own identity. "Right," he said aloud to the mirror, "Time to help some people."

He returned to the sitting room, "Sherlock. I've been called into the clinic. There's been an emergency and..." John began.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked. "Do you even know which clinic it is?"

John pushed redial on his phone. "Grower Street Clinic," a voice answered.

"Grower Street, apparently," John said with a smug smile on his face. He quickly called up the address for the clinic on the laptop and wrote it down on a scrap of paper. "I'd like to go in and see what I can do to help. It wouldn't be a bad idea for me to become acquainted with this reality and that means trying to do my job."

"John, I don't think it's a good idea. We still need to get you seen," Sherlock said stepping up and putting his hands on John's shoulders.

"I feel fine!" John shouted a little louder than he intended. He flinched instinctively at his insolence expecting the Dom in Sherlock to forbid and punish, but Sherlock merely stepped away from him. "I'll be back later and we can talk more about things after I return," John said gathering his coat and wallet.

He left the flat and hurried down the steps. Going to a destination that didn't involve a case, felt strangely good to him just then. This was the first time in years that John had arranged to do something that involved just himself. His clinic needed him to use the skills he'd trained years for, finally. He clenched his fist tightly and used his other hand to hail a cab. On the way, he mentally reviewed the techniques he remembered for treating burns and smoke inhalation. He'd had more than enough experience in the past few years after so many had succumbed to the bombings in the city.

He arrived at the clinic amid chaos. He'd barely stepped through the doors when an attractive, red-haired doctor pounced on him. "John," she said tugging him by the sleeve. "We've got over 20 patients sent to us from a huge warehouse fire. We've got them on cots everywhere. See Jenny for the triage list. We've just received the emergency supplies from Bart's hospital a few minutes ago."

John gaped at the scene before him. Numerous white-coated figures moved between the victims lying on cots. Doctors efficiently and patiently treated people who had been burned in the fire. He marveled at the trolley filled with pristine, white bandages, gauze, ointments and small bottles of pain reliever. This facility had everything it needed to treat this horrible disaster. He hadn't seen such a well-stocked medical facility in years. This was amazing.

"Come on, John!" she urged him again. "Get moving."

He got moving. He spent the next ten hours treating patients and helping the other doctors make people as comfortable as he could. Some of the burns were horrific while others could be treated and sent home to heal. While he worked, another ten more patients came in from the warehouse fire. Somehow, they still had to work in the people who had come to the clinic for other emergencies. The day was hectic, and John barely had two minutes to drink a cup of tea, but he couldn't have been happier doing this work. As he treated each person, he felt his confidence in himself as a medical professional rise to the challenge. Sarah came by twice and marveled at how efficiently he worked.

She finally sent him home late in the evening. He promised to be back the next afternoon for his regular shift. He couldn't wait.

Sherlock sprang out from a shadow just as he emerged from the clinic door. "How'd it go?" he asked anxiously.

"Great. Fine. I remembered it all," John said with a grin. He knew he should feel much more exhausted, but the adrenaline in his system still hadn't run out. "I had a few tricks for triaging they didn't know about and apparently our lot "on the other side" have perfected a great new treatment for 3rd-degree burns that causes less pain than the one they were using."

Sherlock paused and looked at him, eyes glittering in intensity. "I've asked Mycroft to speak to you. He's going to be coming by in the morning. I'm not sure I can handle this version of you on my own, John."

John's stomach sank. "You think I'm mad, don't you?"

"I do not think you are mad, John," Sherlock said keeping his laser-focused eyes pinned on him. "I think you are experiencing something I have no idea how to handle. I'm here for you always, and I want to help you...us figure this out."

"But Mycroft?" John asked and stepped up to the curb to hail a cab. "What can he do?"

"He's got resources we don't have in this matter. Perhaps he may have encountered something like this before."

"All right, Sherlock. If you think your brother can help," John said resignedly. "Then, I'll speak to him."

"Tell him what you told me, John. And, everything else you haven't."

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