1000 Watsons walk into a bar... [BBC Sherlock]

1000 Watsons walk into a bar... [Sherlock, John Watson, AU]

The banner outside the pub reads, “WELCOME JOHN WATSON.”

John walks in late -- because of Sherlock, of course. He has to pause a moment to mentally adjust to the scene in front of him. It’s like looking at a room full of mirrors -- some of them decidedly fun house mirrors, though. Hundreds of other John Watsons turn toward him as he enters. They lick their lips, smile, and wave. He licks his lips, smiles, and waves back.

“John! Come have a drink,” one of them waves from a table full of military AU Watsons. It’s the Watson from the Canadian Forces, John notes -- he hasn’t served in a number of years, but John isn’t surprised to see him still most at ease with the other military men. John hesitates for a moment, considering joining him. Then he sees that the fighter pilot Watson is also at the table. John really can’t take the attitude from that one right now -- fortunately, it looks like Watson the Marine captain is about to jump in and take him down a peg. John doesn’t feel like sticking around to watch; he smiles politely, says, “Later,” and heads for the bar.

He has to pass through the support group for Watsons who’ve lost their Sherlocks along the way -- there’s someone telling the most heartwrenching story about a brain tumor -- and now he really needs a drink. He orders a pint, and as he waits, he listens to the conversation of the Watsons on the stools nearby.

“Sherlock is just so... French, sometimes, you know?” says a frustrated Watson in tennis togs. The nearby Watsons -- one of whom John is surprised to see wearing a baseball uniform -- respond with quizzical looks, then shrug and nod sympathetically. “He’s certainly arrogant,” they agree.

On John’s other side, he suddenly hears a chorus of admiring noises, and he turns to see an array of Watsons grinning at one in their midst, who is blushing. “Wait, you had sex with two of him? At once? Tell us what that was like,” several Watsons demand, as they lean in to clap him on the shoulder.

John sighs. He has long ago come to accept that, for whatever reason, in most universes, he is having sex with Sherlock. He thanks the barkeep for his drink and wanders off. In the process, he passes some Watsons who were not so fortunate in their choice of threesomes -- the Watsons who had sex with both Holmes brothers at the same time are sitting by themselves, getting disgusted looks from the others. Only the Watsons who’ve had sex with Harry, or the ones who’ve purposefully had sex with Moriarty, are more outcast.

John walks on. He smiles as he waves to the parental Watsons -- many of them exchanging photos of a dark-haired boy named Hamish at varying ages, but others mentioning Genie, Ava, or other girls’ names -- but doesn’t have much to contribute to their proud, exhausted chatter. Instead, he stops briefly at a table where a herd of Watsons are clustered around one in a tux, shouting names.

“Daniel Craig!” one demands.

The Watson in a tux chuckles. “Sherlock doesn’t have to deduce anything about him. We’re friends.” There are oohs of envy. More celebrity names are called out, and the well-groomed Watson shares personal tidbits -- occasionally scandalous -- that his Sherlock has inferred about each.

After lingering for a few amusing bits of Hollywood gossip, John moves on to where most of the women are clustered. All the Joans and Janes and Johnnies are oddly fascinating -- softer versions of himself -- and he can’t decide whether it’s wrong that he finds most of them a bit attractive. Either way, he can’t help but flirt a little, though without any success. (It can’t be too weird, though, because he definitely saw a pair of male Watsons getting handsy with one another over in the corner.)

Close at hand, another Watson is playing a solo game of darts with impressive accuracy. (Right-handed? That’s a new one.) John considers joining him, but a conversation from a nearby table draws his attention.