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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[doctorsoldier]

"There's just not that much to tell." John is an astoundingly excellent doctor, a fantastic surgeon, and he can and does figure out how to save lives on a near-daily basis but that doesn't mean that he's good at picking up on reactions, emotions, idiosyncrasies or the rest like Sherlock can and does. John is an 'everyman.' His intellect is not really above that of others, he just applies it better than some. Not as well as some. It's a give and take. Sherlock is usually the focus of his attention, but even that isn't exactly telling as he never catches the oddness. Or rather, he now assumes that all oddnesses are simply in the category of 'Sherlock' and filed away between 'ash analysis' and 'sock index.'

The truth of this moment is that John is lying. He's doing it partially to protect feelings that Sherlock doesn't have and partially to protect his own pride. It's not every day that the woman you'd been on the verge of proposing at dinner that very night accuses you of being in love with your flatmate because you check for messages that aren't there one too many times.

John sighs and gives the abridged version. "She says I'm too involved with my work and that I'm not grown up enough to want a family. I suppose I ought to have agreed but can you imagine me? With a child? It ruins your life. I've seen it happen to my friends. Marriage is fine, marriage doesn't stop men from being allowed out to interact with other adults but children? All plans off, mates."

He eats chips after dunking each in cheese and ketchup. Too much of both, really, to be all that appetising, but he swallows them down one by one.

John's more of a listener. But when he talks... Oh, it's hard to shut him up.

He pulls the ring box from his pocket as it had still be lingering in his jacket and shoves it back across the table at Sherlock. Mistake one. "You can return it to that--"

The pub's stopped moving. The music's been turned off. John slowly looks around at grinning faces and flushes. "I-- I'm not proposing!"

[couldbdangerous]

Well, getting flustered certainly isn't going to salvage the situation. "That's a shame," Sherlock responds drily, quite loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I'd have said yes."

He leans his elbow on the table, his chin on his palm, and bats his eyelashes and there it is, yes, laughter. Excellent. He leans back in his chair, grinning, and gives a dismissive flapping gesture of the hand before sliding the box off the table and slipping it into his pocket. Back to your food. Nothing to see.

He waits for the noise level to slowly climb back to normal before hunching forward again and pilfering more of John's food, chuckling softly to himself. "That's going to get out, you know. Somebody's going to find out about it and that's it, there goes your reputation."

A pause. "Though it'll do wonders for mine, I suppose."

Another wave of the hand. Enough of that. "Anyhow, I don't quite know what you expected. No, shut up, I'm not calling you an idiot. Alright, maybe a bit, but the point is, you have to choose eventually. Your work -- and mine -- or her, with or without a family; it's what people expect, isn't it?"

Another chip makes it past his lips. "That one's spouse is the most important person in one's life, I mean. Or ought to be. Until children enter the picture and then it's them, anyhow. You can't be a proper husband and run about London with me all night getting shot at. Much less a proper father. Out all hours risking his life unnecessarily to get his kicks? No. It wouldn't work."

Sherlock shrugs. "So really it's a matter of deciding which you want more, which you haven't yet. You've been deliberately avoiding deciding it, in fact. Holiday after you've spent too much time with me, pushing me to take whatever cases are available after too much time with her; it can't go on like this forever. You must know that."

[doctorsoldier]

"You're not in a deerstalker," John points out, ears still pink as he presses his face against the palm of his hand. He can feel his embarrassment searing a hole through his skin as he breathed out through his fingers. What a day. "No one's apt to recognize you." Sherlock had the right way of dealing with this, though. Just laugh it off. He tries, but decides to drown himself in cheese instead, letting a change in clientel sweep away from of the pride crushing momentum he'd just faced. He listens to what Sherlock has to say, and he agrees with it.

Even if he doesn't want to.

"I'd like to get married," John says slowly. "And Sarah'd always been fairly good with my naps at work and joining us from time to time--" Sarah'd always had fun until Sherlock spoke to her. So no, maybe she hadn't liked tagging along at all. The three times she did, she almost died and--

Well she wasn't John. She couldn't laugh about the whole of it. Especially when it became news that John had nearly been exploded.

"I'll just have to find someone like us then. And I can have both."

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock grimaces and shakes his head. "No. You can't."

And perhaps he's said that a bit harshly, but the idea that John might want to bring someone else into what Sherlock has come to think of as their world is insulting. If he's insufficient--

Is that fair? Maybe not. He can't tell. "If I'm insufficient then you may do as you wish but my work is mine. I've humoured you in the past but I don't want anyone else joining in and I won't permit it. I don't have to permit it."

He leans back in his seat, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. "Don't mistake compromise for equanimity, John; it won't do you any favours."

No, that's not the way to go about it. Incurably rude though John's presumptuousness might have been, however insulting the implications, he's just as unintentionally abrasive himself more often than not. He sighs and rubs at his face. "Look, John, if I'd any say in the matter she'd never have come along. And if I have any say in the matter now, which apparently I don't--" he reminds himself to breathe, metaphorically speaking "--then I would say that I only want you. Nobody else."

Sherlock leans forward on the table again, cheek resting on his palm, and tries a smile that doesn't quite work. "So providing my feelings on the matter mean anything to you, you'll still have to choose, I'm afraid. Or you could marry me; we're halfway there already. That ring won't fit me but I've no doubt we could exchange it."

He's not quite teasing, no matter how interested he may be in making John blush again.

[doctorsoldier]

Sherlock's mood swings are always very poorly defined and John really has no idea just what's going on between them at the moment. At first, the doctor is shocked by how venomously Sherlock is being against other people going on their little adventures. After that, he's sure he likes the direction of the conversation even less. John's heart rate has accelerated. His breathing has changed. He's absolutely blushing again.

And ordering another whiskey because this is just about too much for him.

Dating another person so soon after breaking it off with Sarah has got to be absolutely terrible but-- But he needs some sort of relief and he doesn't buy women, not because he's got an issue with the profession, but because he knows the diseases his men have returned with from a night out on the town.

John is just going to have to settle on too much alcohol to get his emotions down.

"I'm sure my sister would love that. She's always accusing me if taking after her. That'd just be another way."

[couldbdangerous]

"Oh," Sherlock responds with a sigh. "Well there goes that idea. We clearly mustn't do anything of which your sister might approve."

He picks through the rest of John's chips idly. "Shame, too. It is the obvious conclusion. Quite logical."

Perfectly logical, at least on the surface. He's capable of providing nearly anything John might need. Mentally and physically equipped. But he's also aware of the fact that marriage implies intimacy, which is of course part of the inevitable appeal for a man like John, and Sherlock is both male-bodied and an android. Intimacy inevitably means revealing the latter fact, and the former is obvious and likely to dissuade John from pursuing it in the first place.

"I mean that quite seriously, for the record. Then we wouldn't need anyone else. Well, I already don't, but you wouldn't either. It would be perfect. Problem solved. No need to try to impose anyone else on me-- which is a bit insulting, by the way. I didn't know you thought so little of our little outings, the operative word of course being ours, which I thought was the point. But apparently not. Which is fine, I suppose; they don't have to be important to you but my work is my life." He pauses to steal a sip of John's drink, which makes him grimace.

"And you're an intrinsic part of it, so you are too. Maybe it means something to me, yes? Bringing Sarah along only cheapened it; I don't want any more of that. That's why I got angry." Though maybe angry isn't the right word. He doesn't know if he can claim to have been hurt, either. Surely that's not possible. Everybody tells him so.

"I don't like to be told that I'm inadequate." No android does. He's coming to learn that most humans aren't any more appreciative of it than he is, which is odd to him. They weren't built to serve. They don't need to be adequate for anything at all. Nobody's going to dismantle them if they aren't. "It hardly makes any sense anyhow. You'd not bring me along on one of your dates with Sarah."

[doctorsoldier]

"And yet you managed to invite yourself along at least once a week," John mused, though he'd actually stopped being mad at the other man several months before. He enjoys Sherlock's company. And yes. Yes. He knows why that is too. It's all right though. He can just play it off as-- No. No wonder Sarah thought-- She'd been right.

John pressed his fingers against his lips and then smiles through it. "You're not inadequate. Stop that." Sometimes the teasing is jut too close to home, Sherlock. He has to deal with it on a daily basis and now he has no outlet for it.

He wants to go over to the bar and flirt but... Sherlock's already heading right towards a strop. No. Can't risk it.

So he finishes his chips. He orders more beers. He strokes Sherlock's ego like one might do to a cat and just lets it go from there. He doesn't bring up Sarah again. Or Sherlock's possessiveness over his work (failing to slip that part about himself in there lest he start thinking very sordid things).

By the end of the evening, John's feeling no pain. And the buzz in his pocket gets his mobile phone thrown straight out the window.

Right. Well done, Doctor Watson.

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock sighs and stands, donning coat and scarf. Enough. Quite enough. He wishes he had some way to control John's intake which didn't involve drinking enough to make himself sick. Androids aren't meant to ingest alcohol. It does horrible things to the nanites which normally deconstruct whatever it is they eat, if they are made to be capable of eating. Too much of it and Sherlock first has to void his 'stomach' as completely as possible by vomiting, and second has to find a way to surreptitiously acquire and then ingest replacement digestive slurry, neither of which are strictly pleasant processes -- not to mention the risk involved. He should have no reason to be purchasing nanite slurry, nor would it be easy to explain the copious amounts of black fluid he'd be vomiting up should he be caught.

"We're going home," he announces, and if John complains he'll drag him along. "You're making a fool of yourself."

He supposes that should be his concern, as a friend. It's difficult to reconcile that with the fact that this is a state into which John clearly chose to put himself. There must be some appeal in it, even if Sherlock can't see what it might be.

He pulls some bills from his wallet and leaves them on the table, more than is necessary but he doesn't feel like sticking around for the change. He has a side-alley to drag John through in search of his mobile, or more likely what's left of his mobile.

And then, yes. Then they'll be going home, and Sherlock will be putting John to bed. Not for the first time, either, and he doubts it'll be the last.

Before that, though, will be the trip home. Walking. He won't risk a cab in case it makes John carsick. Walking, and that probably means moving along with John clinging to him, much too close for comfort. Likely also too drunk to notice the lack of heartbeat or the way Sherlock doesn't generally breathe when he's not speaking, or the subtle ways in which his skin looks, feels, and smells different from that of a human.

But what if he does? What if he does by some conspiracy of bad luck and horrible timing notice? What then?

[doctorsoldier]

Mycroft really needs to invest in some sort of technology to at least simulate a heart beat. Prostitution androids, at least the ones that are almost impossible to tell from real women and men, have them. Early on in their use, it was found that men that frequented them found their lack of an artificial heart to be disconcerting. Not that Sherlock was ever meant to be used for that reason at all. Even if John's thoughts have turned that direction on a more or less usual basis since they'd met.

Drink, however, deadened all of that and John is just able to be John. Well. John with extra giggling fits and extra smiles and a bit too clingy really for anyone's good.

"I'm glad," John's saying as they wind back home, their flat really not that far away, "that you've no intentions to marry anyone. I don't, I really, really don't fancy being left out." Sherlock does it enough all ready that John knows what to expect. Aggravation won't be the only thing he'll have to face for that. "And you know what? No more women. Giving them up. Right now this second, giving them straight up. No good comes out of that and... Sherlock, you're vibrating."

Well, Sherlock's phone is. Close enough.

[couldbdangerous]

"So I am," Sherlock responds, opting to ignore it for the time being. "And you're exaggerating. That's a hyperbolic promise if I've ever heard one. Stairs, John; use your legs."

Kitchen first, so Sherlock can pour as much water into John as he can reasonably manage. Toilet next. Bed third. "But good, I'll hold you to it. I shall remind you of this conversation for the rest of your days. 'No, no, John, you remember that night you got wildly drunk and chucked your mobile out the pub window, and then you promised me no more women?' The rest of your days. I don't fancy being left out either."

The top of John's head impacts his chin as they take the next step a bit awkwardly and he grunts, opting to stop speaking for a few seconds and instead concentrate on getting John upstairs and depositing him into one of their kitchen chairs.

"I don't know why you'd possibly worry about me," he adds as he draws John a glass of water. "I told you when we first met that I was married to my work and that hasn't changed. You're a part of my work now too; what more could I possibly need?"

He deposits the glass in front of John and sits next to him. Sherlock retrieves his mobile from his pocket to see who was trying to reach him, adding, "It's you that needs worrying about, clearly. Drink that. All of it. You'll thank me in the morning."

[doctorsoldier]

"Then proposing to you is ridiculous," John points out with a dazed, sort of teddy bearish look to his face as he sets his cheek to Sherlock's chest for a moment before he's directed to have the water. Ah, water. A drunk man's best friend. He drinks half of it, neatly, no signs of drippings, before grinning up at Sherlock with eyes of a generally unnameable colour. They look sapphire in the current light but range from a bright blue to a black. They're fixed, as ever, on Sherlock's face.

John can't help himself. Sherlock is not lovely, not beautiful, but there's something wholly miraculous about him that transforms ever odd shape and line into a work of art.

He doesn't realize he's staring. He never does. He just wets his lips and follows through with his reasoning.

"If you're married to your work. And I'm part of it... We've been together for quite a long time now. Nearly a year. Oh, our anniversary! Let's go out for it. Make a real go of celebrating. Maybe there will be a murder."

[couldbdangerous]

If Sherlock had a heart, that brief moment of very dangerous contact would've sent him into palpitations. As it is he can't say the way his head lights up is strictly pleasant. There are aspects of it which are lovely, but the ingrained fear of discovery overrides that.

"Would making a real go of celebrating involve you getting more or less drunk than this, incidentally? I want to know how much I should expect to have to take care of you." He means it teasingly but it sounds far harsher than he thought it would when said aloud. He smiles to make up for it and touches the back of John's hand with his fingertips.

Human skin is peculiar, different from his own in subtle but noticeable ways. John's is not as fine as his in texture but it's thinner and more delicate. It doesn't have to be as thick, doesn't have to cover lean musculature of the wrong colour. Sherlock's is a work of art, too. The artistry in it is incredible. The subtle shifts in tone, scars, blemishes, and delicate veins just visible underneath are all masterfully crafted. It's still not at all as remarkable as John's, which didn't have to be designed or crafted by anyone at all.

"We could, of course, make it official anyhow, you know. I've no objections, and women love a married man -- oh, but you've sworn them off," he teases, stroking the skin under his fingertips, apparently absently though in reality he's very much focused on the task.

"Then I suppose I'm doomed to live a bachelor the rest of my days," he concludes. "Mycroft is going to be so disappointed."

[doctorsoldier]

"I was thinking dinner, take in a film at the cinema, solve a crime after nearly dying..." None of that is conducive to drinking, Sherlock! John laughs at the thought of him even trying to run when this highly inebriated and laughs again at the way he's laughs. More water. That cinches the deal. He pressed his palm to his forehead to feel a bit of coolness before he manages to get to his feet. "I need to go to bed, Sherlock." He clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth for the last syllable. "Or I'm going to pass out on the sofa."

It's a real through. John on the sofa? He's learned by now that the sofa is the domain of one Sherlock Holmes. Cat extraordinare! The bathroom can be skipped for the night, but Sherlock might want to assist John with simple things like...oh...

Not getting into bed with his shoes on.

Quite the mess that'd make. And maybe taking off his jumper too.

John will submit to all of that like a child, obediently lifting his arms up when needed to get out of his bulky clothes and fall more comfortably into bed. He yawns, loud and long, and really quite exasperatingly, "Will you read me a story then too?"

[couldbdangerous]

"Not a chance," Sherlock responds, divesting John of his socks. "I'm going to go downstairs and see if I can fix your mobile. You lost story privileges when you chucked it out the window. Lift your hips."

Trousers next. Nobody liked sleeping in denim. "You'll be asleep in a few minutes anyhow, pointless. I will also respond to the somewhat concerned text your girlfriend sent me earlier so she doesn't send the police over here to break the bloody door in, and then I'm going to sleep. I would say to text me if you need anything but you've ruined that one for yourself as well, I'm afraid."

He helped John under the blankets and gave him a few none-too-gentle pats on the chest before heading out, flicking off the light as he goes and shutting the door behind him. After that it's back down to the kitchen table to interface with his own mobile while he works on John's. Together he and his phone's AI silently compose a response to Sarah, something appropriately brief and curt assuring her that John is fine and will continue to be fine providing he doesn't aspirate his own vomit, which he feels outlines the situation nicely.

Repairing the mobile is careful, meticulous work. The case is damaged but not too badly warped or punctured. It's popped open and some of the contacts require soldering, but Sherlock feels he can probably get it working again for long enough to order a replacement. That's funds he'll have to account for, as Mycroft is bound to ask. The thought irks him, but there isn't really much choice. His assistant, partner, John, whatever the proper terminology is, has to be well-equipped.

It's late when Sherlock finally flicks off the lights in the kitchen, slips into his 'sleep' clothes, and plugs himself in for the night. Late when he finally allows himself to slip into a proper stasis, perfectly still where he lays curled up on his side under the blankets with the power cord trailing from his back. The building finally feels alright, properly occupied, with no annoying conceptual emptinesses where John should be but isn't.

[substituteskull]

John stumbles down the stairs at quarter to ten and disregards his rule about Sherlock's couch. He face plants into the soft fabric that has not been perfectly formed to his own body but is still comfortable enough to relax bonelessly into. He vaguely remembers last night, and face to the Union Jack pillow, he really can't care any more than he already does. He'll just steer clear of that particular pub and avoid Sherlock's taunts and teases for as long as possible.

there's no random placement of objects around the flat, which tells John that Sherlock's not yet awake. That suits him perfectly fine. They had a long night and maybe the detective went out without him again after.

He was just starting to sink, helplessly, and pleasantly, into the cushions when the door to Sherlock's bedroom slammed open with a bang. John jumped and his head pounded.

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock sweeps through the flat like the dervish he is, mornings. If there's an extra bit of franticness in his motions this particular one, it's only because he has, against all odds, managed to oversleep despite the fact that androids don't technically do that. Sleeping. Stasis, yes. Sleeping, no. But he'd been comfortable. Not physically; physical comfort is largely a foreign concept to an android. Temperature has no relative value, positioning and support have just as little. Stasis is also possible standing up.

Mentally comfortable, then. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing wrong. Nothing to wake up for until he hears John making his way unsteadily downstairs. Then, yes, he's out of bed as quickly as he can manage, shoving charging apparati out of sight a bit frantically. Out! Yes. Awake. Good.

"Morning, darling," he announces, mercifully much more quietly than he'd opened the door. John's repaired (but still badly scratched and dented) mobile is deposited on the coffee table in front of him with a flourish. Sherlock doesn't announce his plans to acquire another. He gathers that this is a common human practice, the exchange of material goods with the intention of producing an upswing in mood. A friendly sort of thing to do and Sherlock, in usual fashion, unintentionally exaggerates it to something bigger, better, and more expensive than it strictly needs to be.

Functional, though. Always functional.

"Going out," he announces. "Don't worry, nothing exciting. Stay. Rest. Don't vomit on my couch or I'll murder you as slowly as I can reasonably manage."

And with that, he's off again, down the stairs.