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It takes John five days to realize what's happened.
They're so similar. Their mannerisms, their hair style, their scars, their memories, their temperament - almost all exactly the same. He kisses like Arthur does. He knows their inside jokes. He gives his tie a fussy little tug once it's knotted; his delighted laugh when John pesters him just so is the same.
It's the grief that gives him away.
John should've known that first night. Because Arthur went out for a walk - just a little spin around the neighborhood, to clear his head and give them space after an argument - and when he came back, he stood stock-still at the door and gazed at John like he was a wonder. Not for long. Maybe two seconds. Long enough that John should've fucking known. And when he climbed into John's lap, kissed him deep, and cupped his face with shaking hands, John thought he was just rubbed raw from the week they'd had - that it was the catharsis of the argument that let loose his vulnerability. After, he pressed his face into John's shoulder and wept quietly, the tears warm on John's skin. "Arthur," he said, "it's alright. I’m not going to leave you."
"You will," he murmured, his voice broken and trembling. "Or I will. Everyone dies, John."
Over the next few days, he stuck to John like glue, like they did in the early days, reluctant to run errands on his own or let John do so, anxious when they had to separate. John caught him holding one of John's undershirts to his face, breathing in the scent of him, his eyes bloodshot. Twice, he started to cry while holding John.
But Arthur has bad days, bad weeks. Sometimes the weight of everything that's happened lays him low. John thought little of it, except sadness that his partner was suffering.
It's the case that ruins it. They're heading for a bookstore, where a potential witness works, and talking shop when John mentions Sullivan, and Arthur asks, "Who?"
A week ago, Sullivan punched Arthur in the nose. He is not a man Arthur would forget.
John freezes on the spot; he watches as he takes two more steps, then stops, and turns, a concerned look on his face. "Sullivan," John repeats, a little louder, articulating more clearly.
"I, um..." There: Nervousness. His eyes dart back and forth. Then he gives a little jerk of his head and snaps his fingers, like he's just remembered. "Right, right, Sullivan. Of course. Ha! How could I forget?"
And all at once, John understands.
This isn't his Arthur. This Arthur's John must have died, and recently. A wave of dizziness comes over John, and rage, and sadness, and confusion. "What do you know about Sullivan?" he asks, slowly. "Tell me."
There - a deer in headlights stare, swept away in a second, but not soon enough. "Oh, well, he...he, ah..." John can practically hear the fuck-fuck-fuck! going through his mind.
"Where is he?" John asks. His fury rises in him, hot and wild, narrowing his vision. His stomach's in knots.
"Where's...Sullivan?"
John lunges forward and grabs him by the lapels. "What did you do with my Arthur?”
His mouth drops open. He's been caught, and he knows it. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times; he sets his hands on John's forearms. Then, perhaps realizing he cannot lie, his eyes begin to fill with tears. "I'm sorry," he says. "John, you have to understand - "
"What did you do to him?!" John screams. He shakes him, hard, making him flinch. People are starting to look at them. "Tell me! Now!"
"H-h-he's not dead! He's not - he's fine! I promise, I swear I didn't - "
John doesn't want to hear the rest. He reels back and decks him. He collapses to the ground with a groan. "He may not be dead," John growls as he writhes on the sidewalk, "but you, Arthur? You're on thin fucking ice." He bends down and hauls him to his feet; he's begun to cry with soft hiccuping gasps. Any sympathetic feelings John might have for this man are eclipsed by his white-hot rage. "We're going home," he says, "and you are going to explain everything."
To his credit, he goes quietly.