Time Strips the Gears Till You Forget What They Were For

[doctorsoldier]

Continued from here.

The trip home from New Zealand is simply not as pleasant as one should be.  John stares up at the ceiling of the plane, studying the grooves in the walls as they fit together with the rest of the fuselage.  Sarah's very quiet beside him, and not the sort of quiet that happens when one is content and sore from too much holiday

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[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock's going to keep giving John 'that look'. In fact, he's going to take John by the shoulders and bend to meet his eyes on a level plane in order to make 'that look' all the more compelling. "Yes," he says softly, giving John a bit of a shake. "Yes, I can stay in here. And alone, too. She didn't kill me, as you may have noticed."

And that makes all the difference, really. She'd helped him, in fact, though he can't say that because he can't explain how. "And I'm not to be pursuing her any longer, so I rather suspect she'll leave me alone."

How inopportune that this should be the moment at which his pocket sighs. He narrows his eyes and moves away from John to rifle through his coat, checking the lining over carefully. "Mostly."

No, nothing in the coat. The bed, then? She hadn't touched much else. No, nothing, not even inside the pillowcase. Perhaps it's just horrendous timing. Or... or perhaps she's watching from a distance and can see them in the room together. Sherlock moves to stare out of the window a moment before drawing the curtains. When he turns back to John he does so slowly, frowning in faint puzzlement.

"It didn't go off once when you were out," he says softly, head tilted, and takes a step forward. "And she's texted me twice since you got back. I thought she was trying to get a rise out of me, but the timing seems more dependent upon you."

He takes another step forward, expression curious. "Why would that be, John? Is there something you're not telling me?"

[doctorsoldier]

John looks down and then back up at Sherlock before another sigh goes off in his pocket. "You're the detective," he says, rather gently, hand pressing against Sherlock's chest to provide some distance. "I'm fine, nothing's wrong. Well. Other than the fact that you've attracted the attention of someone that meets her guests without clothing on and who reprograms your mobile to do that when she texts."

Someone bested Sherlock Holmes, but that didn't mean that John Watson had to get himself all riled up over it. He does realize that he's being ridiculous and it makes him sigh in a decidedly more safe for work kind of way.

"I'm fine. Bit of an oversight for certain things on my part and a mishap stepping over a few lines I ought to not have." His smile is genuine, he's not trying to hide anything. If he has to crush on someone, it might as well be his flatmate as the man is truly remarkable and worthy of someone's affections. John doesn't have to make it weird, or at least, he can stop making it weird. Sherlock obviously isn't interested in Irene.

And they have other cases to work on.

"You should check your email. Another case will do us both some good. Besides, it seems I'm currently unemployeed again. I suggest you take advantage of that."

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock rests his own hand over John's, gaze still as curious as before. "I'm the detective," he agrees, "and that makes no sense. Why should that bother you? That I have her attention; why is that wrong?"

If he sounds a little defensive it's only because he thinks he deserves that attention. It's new, someone liking him despite knowing what he is. A human, at that. He deserves that, doesn't he? There's nothing wrong with what he is, no matter what anyone else says, and John... well. John doesn't know. Sherlock slides their hands down to rest against his sternum.

"There's no reason to be jealous, John," he murmurs. "And she must have known you would be from the start. My mobile -- she'll have tampered with it before bringing it back, not during or after. What you did is inconsequential, and I think I know what she wants."

He presses down on John's hand. It's bound to hit any minute now, isn't it? John is a doctor. He's supposed to notice these things. "But you mustn't be upset. There's nothing; she's lovely and she wants me but only because of what I am, not who I am, which-- are you paying any attention at all?"

Come along, John. This isn't easy. He's terrified. Perhaps if he stops breathing, as well... "Please, John; I'm trying to tell you something you should know. Notice me, please."

[doctorsoldier]

Oh he had. He had noticed when Sherlock pressed his palm down to come flush to his chest. He had noticed and that is why his brows are still furrowed. And why his breathing has changed. It's not fascination, either. It's fear. Before Sherlock's even started to move his hand from sternum to navel, he's trying to pull his hand back. The moment he is allowed to do so, he carefully, hands steady, pulls open Sherlock's shirt, button by button.

He's seen the man shirtless before, sat wih him only yesterday on a sofa at the Palace in just a sheet. And still, he swallows when he sees only skin as it ought to be.

The texture, however, is different. John scratches lightly at it. And pressed his fingers against the pulse point in Sherlock's neck.

Lack of pulse has him adjusting his fingers. Pushing harder.

Nothing. Nothing.

"Dear Lord."

It's been a year. A year and some change and Sherlock has been an android this whole time. Mycroft's concern, his recruitment techniques...

John feels at least a little betrayed. He stomps into Sherlock's bedroom once more and now that he knows what he's looking for, he finds the power station and recharging cord without any effort at all.

"Don't I feel the fool," he mutters, back to Sherlock as his knees give out. It's dramatic, but can't be helped. 

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock isn't expecting that. Still, his reflexes are quick. He moves to catch John as quickly as he can, to scoop him up and cradle him close. If he had a heart, it would be aching. This... it should change nothing. They are as they always were. But he knows that to be wishful thinking. John won't agree.

He lays the man out on his bed carefully and crawls up to sit cross-legged alongside him. He waits. He waits and he replicates the way that John stroked his hair yesterday when he was trapped inside a body that didn't work anymore.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, futilely, and slumps forward to rest his head on John's chest. There, at least, is a heartbeat. Funny things, hearts. The absence of one means nothing if one can go on without it, and the presence of one only implies humanity, not the sole dominion over sentience. Thought. Emotion is rooted in the brain as well and this Sherlock has. Maybe it's not like a human's brain, but it exists and it works. It's growing to become every bit as complex as that of a real person as well.

So what has changed? Nothing but the physical structure of him, and even that has changed only conceptually.

Sherlock closes his eyes, collapsing into thoughts of the moment. Nonessential systems shut down. He's completely still and completely silent and he waits.

[doctorsoldier]

The change? A persistant omission has just been revealed. Of course John is going to be startled. Shocked. Perhaps even betrayed. It's a lie, or had been, as Sherlock had been hiding himself. And for good reason. A rogue android left out and about town--- Some government experiment? And why had John been selected? What made him a good candidate for all of this? Why would someone mess with his head like this? And why tell him now, at the height of his happiness? It seems so cruel.

So very cruel.

Sherlock's head on his chest prompts John's fingers to lose themselves in the thick black curls that reside against the back of his neck the moment he stirs. His head aches and for a long while, he has no idea why.

His eyes open.

He's in Sherlock's bed. Staring at Sherlock's ceiling. His wardrobe is spilling out his battle armour and in the corner is that power generator with the lead reachable from the bed. Where Sherlock sleeps. Shuts down.

He goes for the pulse again and feels nothing but smooth skin.

"Am I part of some government program now?" he asks, going back to hair stroking. "Has someone been watching-- What am I saying? Your brother ha-- Brother. Oh God. So, she knew. Irene. That's what all this-- Is she blackmailing Mycroft now too?"

Because Sherlock is a machine. And John hunts and pecks on a keyboard and can hardly figure out how to upload apps without using his owner's guide constantly. He's technologically resistant.

But at least he's not trying to query Sherlock like a computer.

[couldbdangerous]

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeats softly. "I didn't relish lying to you. The way you think of-- my self-preservation directives indicated that I should refrain from telling you. And I know how you think of, of us. I didn't want to be thought of in this way."

He stirs, fingers curling where they rest on John's belly. "I am not known to the government at large. The intelligence community does not know about one of their pet android overseers' pet project. Me, I mean. Mycroft's. He built me. There's no explicit directive forbidding it. He wishes to prove a point. I don't know if he'll manage it. Not because I am unsatisfactory, but because humans too easily ignore what contradicts their idea of how things ought to be."

He pauses, hand spreading out again. "I am equipped with an extraneous piece of hardware which is designed to record trends in my cognition. The goal is to prove that android brains operate in a way which is analogous to those of humans. That we are capable of developing thought patterns which transcend our programming. And emotions of near-human complexity, I believe, though Mycroft didn't tell me so explicitly. Sentience, in any case."

He's silent again for a while before he lifts his head to look down at John mournfully. "We're not so very different from you," he states. "We both do as our programming dictates. But only we are to be kept as slaves. I am important to Mycroft because I posit the question, the essential question: if we are sentient, is it right that we may only serve you?"

[doctorsoldier]

The slow stroking of Sherlock's hair stops abruptly. "Do you-- I mean, I know that's sort of how you usually talk when you're trying to mess with Anderson or are very, very focused but could you not talk like that?" The 'we' versus 'you' is really getting to him. It leaves his skin crawling.

Sherlock is artificial. There's no real Sherlock hanging out in the wings ready to jump out and laugh and show him his new toy. John's grown up with robots, maybe not so realistic as they have been in recent years but he understands their use but never got into the morality of their increasing sentience.

He rubs a heel of one palm into his eye and nearly wishes himself to pass out again.

"Your programming this and directives that and... Okay, okay, it's just a lot for me to-- Can we just forget about, for just a moment, that you don't have organs and just go back to speaking like flatmates before you try to explain anything else?"

Give the man a break, Sherlock. Please, please give him just a moment before you start going on about deeper implications? About the experiment, about his own role-- He just wants his friend.

[couldbdangerous]

"I do have organs," Sherlock points out, "technically speaking, they're just not like yours, and I can't forget them because I'm constantly aware of them and what they're doing. But fine."

He's not sure how to answer John's questions without speaking on such terms, though, so he opts for answering a different part of it. "I don't think Adler is out to blackmail me. Nor Mycroft. I don't believe she intends to do me any harm at all, unless I go out of my way to harm her."

He spreads himself out alongside John, watching the man as he speaks. "She's interested in me. Her behaviour yesterday suggests that she knew I was coming which suggests that she's been watching me. Perhaps she deliberately orchestrated the whole thing; I don't know. Her interest was clearly in my brain, nonetheless. Well, and in my body, passingly, but I suspect that a fetish rather than genuine interest in my form; she has an android of her own and their relationship is clearly sexual in nature. Not strictly surprising that she should express interest in me."

There, is that better? That's very Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?

"I am, after all, a magnificent specimen of manhood," he adds drily, and there's humour as well.

"But her outright attempts at seducing me, no, she was clearly interested in my reaction, which is back to my brain, again. How I function. It seems to be the primary point of interest. So she wants to toy with me. And you, but mostly me. That's it, I think. Just a game."

[doctorsoldier]

When Sherlock sits, John does too, though his posture is looser and less rigid that one might expect. His knees are bent, feet against the mattress, and he leans back against the pillows. His eyes close for a moment and he rubs at the corners before exhaling slightly and giving Sherlock a somewhat bemused, absolutely puppyish sort of look that consists of his chin hitting his chest and his soulful eyes watching Sherlock's every motion.

He's not really sure if he's afraid or excited or just pretty hurt. His emotions are still there. Sherlock had fooled him completely. He's still fooling him completely, just sitting there.

"All right," he says finally. "Well, not, not everything is all right, but it's good that she's not trying to expose you." And that ought to be telling. John's still here. Still close. Still willing to work it out.

Or at least he's willing to keep Sherlock's secret for him too. He hasn't decided what else there is to do.

"Why did you tell me, Sherlock?"

[couldbdangerous]

"The current situation overrides the one that came before. It was better that I tell you than permit you to find out on your own. If she were to carry on as she has been you would have found out. She's pushing towards it, though I don't know if it's really her goal." Sherlock hesitates a moment before reaching out to touch John's knee.

"And you deserve to know. You deserved to know before, but I was... comfortable. As things were. But if you're to be sneaking into my room to cop the occasional feel, it's better that I just tell you," he adds, smiling fondly. "Though I suppose you'll not care to do that anymore. That's two of your problems solved in one."

Or maybe he will want to. Sherlock isn't sure why he prefers that option. As long as John stays, he'll take what he can get though. He lets his hand fall to the mattress, sighing. "Though none of mine. I have the horrible feeling I've just ruined quite a lot of things for myself."

He does have those, too. Feelings. Impressions. "Does it bother you, John? My autonomy?"

Another hesitation, and Sherlock looks down at the mattress, expression uncomfortable and unhappy. "I was never meant to be possessed, but I can assign ownership status to you all the same. I would be incapable of hurting you. If you... if you are frightened, if you take moral objection to the current state of affairs I can do this for you."

Pale eyes flick up momentarily to read the expression on John's face. "Though I would rather you be my friend. I would rather be your equal."

[doctorsoldier]

"I don't-- God, no-- No, Sherlock, I don't want to possess you. I can barely figure out a mobile phone and-- No. I'm not that responsible and you are my friend. You are and oh God, I did not mean to molest you. I--"

John pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's afraid that all of his brains are just going to leak out if he doesn't manage to redirect the flow or apply enough pressure. He's not sure what to say to that. To any of it. He puts up his free hand, requesting just a moment, before he can address the parts of what Sherlock says slowly. The man certainly likes to talk. John? Well he's not much of a talker. He toddles around, follows Sherlock like a duckling until the man annoys him, and then he goes off for a drink or a kip on the couch of a pretty redhead and--

Ugh.

Sherlock's still looking at him when he opens his eyes and John's trying so hard not to wonder if those eyes are organic like some high end androids can be or synthetic. And are there nerve endings behind them? What about along the insides of Sherlock's forearms? Would he shiver if John stroked him there? No.

No, there's been no problems solved, just extra ones added on.

"You're fine, what you are is-- It's fine. I told you once. It's all fine. I just...there's some adjustments I need--"

[couldbdangerous]

"Fine," Sherlock says to calm him. "Fine. I don't mean to push. I just don't want you to go. And can you molest someone if you have their consent? I don't know how it should be defined. Admittedly I couldn't express it at the time but I could've indicated displeasure if I'd wanted. Which I didn't, clearly."

He gives a brief shrug. "Or you might argue that you can't possibly anyhow because I will inherently be willing, by nature. That's the usual rationale, isn't it? Untrue, but you don't have to take my word for that. No, right, sorry. Shutting up."

And he does, for a little while, opting instead to watch John try to work it through. He doesn't really know what's taking so long. It seems to him to be easy enough as conceptual alterations go, but then he finds humans and androids to be equally acceptable in terms of companionship. John is not an android and Sherlock doesn't expect him to be able to follow android speak, he doesn't expect him to be knowledgeable regarding android culture, such as it has been allowed to form, or how androids think and feel about various topics. And that's fine to him. No special care needed.

But it occurs to him as he's observing John that there's more to it than that. He'd assumed the physicality of him hadn't mattered because they hadn't been terribly physical with one another to start. But there's no way he can miss the little glances John keeps giving him, and he's fairly certain he knows what they mean.

"You're curious," he says matter-of-factly, shifting to a kneel and reaching out to take John's hand in order to press it against his own cheek. "You may touch. Ask questions. Anything you want to know, go ahead. I won't be offended."

[doctorsoldier]

"I'd be offended," John says immediately. "Not that you're me. You're not. And not everyone is like me, God no, that'd be awful." Sherlock's skin isn't quite right. And John's always known that, even if he's never had prolonged contact before. The grain is too even, the pores too uniform save for where there's obviously been some tampering to make it seem less uniform. And maybe this shouldn't be done here. And maybe Sherlock should close his eyes. Or-- No, that's a truly terrible idea. Very bad. "It's personal, isn't it?"

It'd be personal to John. To ask after all of these things-- To want to know something that is, really, intimate. Yes, he may be a doctor but that hardly gives him license to just do as he wishes--

Sherlock, however, has given him permission and isn't that enough?

Only potentially.

"And maybe I don't want to know. You're-- You're just you and nothing's changed. Other than the fact that you don't have to breathe and no wonder you rarely eat... I'm sure I could just flip through the internet and specifics." John swallows. "I'm sorry, it's just... Difficult. There, excellent word. I want to trust you. God, I want it to be as usual again."

[couldbdangerous]

"Personal? I suppose, but that doesn't bother me. It's better than leaving you to wonder, at that." And maybe Sherlock likes the attention, though if that's not normal he'll refrain from admitting it.

"And I won't be offended. Truly. All the less so as it's a matter of practicality. You want it to be as usual; so do I. This is the best way I can think of to help you get over what I am." Blunt, perhaps, but there it is.

"I'm not ashamed of it," he adds, "so I've no reason to be offended, have I?"

He wasn't offended by Irene Adler's fascination with him either. In fact if she'd been blunt in her approach he'd likely have been willing to answer many of her questions directly. It might even have helped him catch her off guard more easily to take the mobile. He doesn't mind that, though. This way is more fun.

"John, you're a doctor. Examine me. It will help, won't it? So go ahead. Or don't, whatever you prefer, but I'm glad you find me interesting. It's better than outright disgust, which is what I'd expected."

[doctorsoldier]

Examine him? For what? Heart disease? Liver disease? Early onset dementia? John's a doctor, he's not a technician. Androids are meant to resemble humans, never quite like Sherlock and Mycroft, evidently, do. It makes John wonder how many more are out there. If they can blend in, if they really are not seeking any different treatment--

But the idea is still terrifying. The implications of uprising, of manufacturing soldiers (humans need to wait at least until teenage years to be viable for fighting and androids can be manufactured in less than a year, start to finish, for specialized military tasks). But that's just xenophobia. John is not that sort of man.

he wets his lips and sets his hand on Sherlock's ear. He's feeling for seams. Seams are what he's been told to look for in case lifelike androids full of explosives were brought in as casualties needing a doctor. He's thorough. He has to be. Delaying treatment to the truly injured could kill them. Allowing treatment to an android IED could kill everyone.

Nothing around the ears, he notes. The hair is firmly in place. Back and sides of the neck, clean. He reaches around Sherlock's waist to where most androids keep their ports (though the back of the neck is also a popular place for some models as hair could cover it). On Sherlock, this spot on his lower back is extra fleshy there at the base of his spine. It should be harder.

There shouldn't been a filamented cabling.

John's holding his breath.