Written for the Sherlock Seattle 2015 program. The convention theme was "Curious Collections", so I collected four Watsons and well. This happened.

"They've got to be down here," John said, leading the way down the steps, gun drawn. Joan held her collapsible baton in one hand and a flashlight in the other, illuminating the landing. The eldest of their party, the calmest and most steady of the lot, came next, revolver in hand, while the dashing one took rear guard, his rapier drawn from the cane that sheathed it.

Shoes scraping against the cold, stone floor, the four came to a halt.

"All clear, Watson?" John called over his shoulder.

"Yes," answered two voices.

Rolling her eyes, Joan sighed. "Guys. We agreed." She shone her flashlight on each of them in turn. "John. Joan. Doctor. Watson."

The eldest smiled and tipped his hat. "Of course, Miss Watson. Apologies."

Joan smiled in return. It was impossible to remain irritated with the man-his amiability made even this grim task seem lighter.

The Watson in the brown and blue scarf sheathed his sword. "All clear," he called, and he came forward to John's side. They studied the door together.

"Solid oak," said Watson.

"Don't think shooting it would even make a dent in the thing," John said.

"If we just had a battering ram of some sort," the doctor said.

"Or," Joan said.

She produced a small kit from her pocket and, handing the flashlight to John, got to work picking the lock.

John cocked his head in admiration as he aimed the light for her. "You're a woman of many talents," he said, flirting shamelessly. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Sherlock." She paused to glance at the others. "Don't yours teach you stuff?"

Watson huffed. John shuffled his feet. The doctor chuckled softly.

Joan lifted an eyebrow and went back to work.

After a few moments, Watson pressed his lips together, his moustache bristling outward. "They're all right," he declared suddenly with a sharp nod, ostensibly to reassure the others.

The eldest clapped him on the back. "Of course they are. A Holmes always knows the way out of any tight spot."

John waggled his head. "Except when he doesn't."

"You would think the four of them could deduce how to get out of a locked room," Joan acknowledged.

The lock clicked, and Joan looked to the others as she withdrew her tools. "Ready?"

John and the doctor came forward, weapons drawn. Watson unsheathed his sword, and Joan crouched to the side and pushed open the great wooden door.

It swung inward with a mighty creak, and the four Watsons rushed in, ready for battle.

The battle they witnessed, however, was not the one they had expected.

The assailant lay, bound, on the dirt floor of the cellar, his eyes wild not with fear but relief.

Just behind him stood four men.

Four Sherlocks.

"Gentlemen, the conclusion was obvious from the beginning. One needed only to observe that the ash was from a Trichinopoly cigar," said the grandest of them, with glittering eyes and a silky voice as smooth as the dark hair brushed away from his face.

Lifting a finger, the one with the unkempt hair objected. "Pardon me, but it was an Indian lunkah," he said, straightening his cravat and lifting his chin with a quick jerk.

"No, no, NO!" cried the Sherlock with the riotous, dark curls. He waved his elegant hands as he paced the room. "It makes no difference-the ash was a secondary clue at best! For God's sake, look at the man's right thumb!"

The one wearing a yellow t-shirt under his brown sport coat lowered his head. "Really, gentlemen. Watson and I would have had this solved the instant the culprit spoke-his accent is distinctive." He rolled forward onto the balls of his feet with a little bounce and looked up. "How any of you so-called detectives have managed to solve your way out of a paper bag escapes even me, and these natterings only solidify my conclusion-"

The eldest, however, had already stepped away, having noticed his Watson coming towards him. He greeted his partner with a wide grin and open arms.

"Ah! Impeccable timing, as always, my dear Watson," he cried, clapping a hand along the doctor's back. Both men were all smiles, and Holmes slipped his hand around his Watson's offered arm. "Come. Let us dine and discuss the night's events in a more congenial setting."

"Excellent idea, Holmes," the doctor answered, and the two walked off arm in arm.

Joan approached her Sherlock with an expectant gaze, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Ah, Watson, I see you've put my lessons to good use! I wasn't about to rob you of an opportunity to-"

But when she raised her open palm and gave him a glare, he stopped talking. She pivoted and strode towards the open door, and her Sherlock followed.

Having determined the room was clear of threats, John set the safety on his gun and tucked it into the back of his jeans, under his coat.

"Well." He cleared his throat. "At least you were driving yourself mad instead of me; that's a nice change," he said with a grin. He crouched to deal with the bound criminal on the floor, but his Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"Oh, leave him. He's an idiot. The Lestrades can handle him," Sherlock said, and he turned up the collar of his great coat, letting it swirl as he made his exit. Shaking his head, John stood and followed his Sherlock out the door.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, John could still hear the raised voices of the last Holmes and Watson, still in the room.

"Oh, stop sulking."

"Stop complaining."

"I'm not complaining! Do I complain when you leave your wet socks on the windowsill? When Mary finds blood samples tucked in her knitting bag?"

"Those were a gift-"

John smiled to himself and climbed the stairs.

Notes: Thank you to my Consulting Writers, Jude, Armada, and Toasty, for speedy and thorough beta services.