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]

John almost chokes on his coffee before he recovers. And a good job of it, really, too, considering the subject matter, but he returns the fond smile. His is much less strange than Sherlock's, but he believes the sentiment to be the same. Setting down the cup, he gently moves the bag into his lap. "You don't need to get me a ring if we're already married," John points out. He remembers last night just fine. Being part of Sherlock's work might have been insulting to some, but it's fullfilling to John. No one would likely understand that.

Sherlock's not perfect, but he is a good friend. Despite Donovan's assertations to the otherwise, being friends with Sherlock Holmes is the best thing that's happened to John for a very, very long time.

Seeing the chocolates first, the box larger than the other, the brand expensive, John giggles almost gleefully and sets it down, plucking open the plastic to select one of the chocolate covered cherries.

He eats it, dark and sweet and perfect, with relish. And then goes back for the rest.

The small mobile phone box makes him blink. Sleek. A new model, like Sherlock's. "Wow." No more 'From Harry' engraving. "Thank you. No, really. Did you actually take payment for something?"

[couldbdangerous]

"Shockingly," Sherlock responds, tone indicating annoyance and disbelief, "there doesn't appear to be a single person in the telecommunications industry who owes me any favours. I had to pay for it. With money and everything. And the chocolates as well, so I think you probably owe me at least one of the caramel ones."

At least one. He doesn't wait for John's approval to steal a piece, either. "And people who are married usually wear rings, John, unless they're trying to hide the fact for whatever reason. I can only assume based on your declining to wear one that either you're seeing someone else or you're ashamed of me. Or is it both? Well, it hardly matters. All of those options still make you an unutterably cruel man. I am sorely wounded."

Sherlock eats chocolates like a man who thinks he may never be permitted to have another: slowly, and with relish. The bites he takes are almost comically small, and he lets them linger to melt on his tongue before swallowing them down. It's all quite decadent.

"Perhaps I'll get one for myself," he concludes between bites, and there's some finality to the statement. "I'm not ashamed of you, and I'm certainly not seeing anyone else."

Who else is there to see? Not even the chocolate can compete, however much he's enjoying it.

[doctorsoldier]

"It has nothing to do with shame," John said, getting into the teasing himself as he popped another chocolate into his mouth. There was a reason that expensive chocolate cost what it did... It was simply delightful. Licking his fingertips, John took another mouthful of coffee. The sugar was delightful. Absolutely what he needed to perk him up after that morning being half dead.

Immediately wanting to pry into the box to test out this new gadget, he glanced up at Sherlock with a smile before he tore the plastic open.

"On the contrary. Means I don't need a ring. I like what we've got and no one needs to define us. If you'd like to wear a ring though... You've got a collection in your costume wardrobe. Pick something simple. I wouldn't have agreed to anything too loud."

And another piece of chocolate before he went for the instruction manual.

[couldbdangerous]

"Alright, fine; but you mustn't be terribly proud of me, in that case," Sherlock responds with a shrug. "Not enough to want everyone to know, anyway. Though I suppose that's understandable, really."

He sniffs faintly as though offended and reaches across the table to steal another chocolate. "Whereas I, on the other hand, am terribly proud of you. I should be delighted if everyone who saw us knew."

A pause. "For certain. They're already quite good at guessing, I suppose."

With that he settles in to watch John fiddle with his new phone, head tilted faintly. It isn't often that he gives gifts, not even to John. As always he's curious to see the outcome, curious as to whether or not it is acceptable as an offering of... of what? Of peace? Not currently necessary, as far as he can tell. Of friendship? Maybe, but he makes overtures of the same daily. Apology? No, John's relatively crap holiday was not Sherlock's fault. As far as he knows, anyhow.

"Try not to defenestrate this one for at least another month; Mycroft will go apopleptic if I spend much more than I already have." Not strictly true, but Sherlock thinks that if he has to explain one more time to his illustrious progenitor -- who should really know better -- why keeping John happy is imperative, he might.

[doctorsoldier]

"Do you use big words just to see if I'm paying attention?" John asks, not looking up from the manual even as he turns the power on his mobile on. It makes a satisfyingly happy chirping noise and John grins, content for the moment. "Or is it an attempt to make me feel stupid for not wanting to wear a ring? Bloody things are annoying. You'll just have to go it alone and know that my love for you is stronger than a bit of metal."

He names his phone by typing on it with his thumbs and enters his email address so that outlook with retrieve his messages. He starts to copy his contacts into the phone lovingly as well and turns to snap a photo of Sherlock to attach to his contact screen.

Every time the man texts or rings him now, that stupid face will pop up. Oh, it makes John giddy.

He takes a picture of a few more things as well and practices emailing them to himself. At least he's enjoying the moment so yes, Sherlock's imperative is well taken care of for the time being.

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock snorts and leans forward to slump over the table, cheek resting on one forearm while he traces absent designs on the table in front of John with his other hand. It's one of the classic indications of restlessness in Sherlock Holmes, this seemingly random act of expression. There's a pattern to it, meaning (or at least some aesthetic sense) inherent in the motions though they're performed more for the tactile input than for anything else.

"I use words because they're there to be used," he responds, frowning faintly. "It was the most appropriate and time-efficient means of expressing what I meant, ergo it was logical to proceed in that fashion."

He's capable of using words to other effects, of course. To anger, deliberately. To calm. To cajole. Whatever needs doing, yes, he can do it, but the rest of the time he'd been certain people used words according to appropriateness and efficiency. A natural processing of semantics as correlated with effort, comprehensibility, and time. The overlap gives the word to be used. Something in the language faculty, perhaps. Automatic.

But perhaps not. Perhaps humans are different. That's still how his brain -- or equivalent thereof -- works, anyhow.

"Though I do often think that you must not be paying me much attention. If I were sufficiently bothered by that, believe me, I am capable of enacting far more effective measures to regain your focus."

[doctorsoldier]

John's still not paying much attention, or at least, he's too busy fiddling with things that he doesn't bother to look up at Sherlock went he speaks. He just smirks and starts to search for and download apps. The device is brilliant, he determines. It's beautiful. He still can't believe it's his. Or that Sherlock would be so considerate. It has him truly tickled. Even Sarah has stopped being a bad taste in his mouth for a moment.

It's funny what being loved will do to a person.

Sherlock's silence and his actions cause John to nudge the chocolates towards him again as he taps the Angry Birds game. Oh yes oh yes. He needs his games!

"What sort of measures? Shoving me into a jacket and throwing me down the stairs to do an errand for you?"

[couldbdangerous]

"If I wanted your undivided attention, giving you something else to do wouldn't make much sense," Sherlock points out, amusement in his voice. He prefers to remain silent on the subject of what he thinks might actually work, mostly because he rather suspects they won't work if he informs John as to the procedure.

Instead he opts to push himself up from the table and out of his chair and move around to stand behind John. He leans forward to peer curiously at what he's doing, nearly cheek to cheek by the time he gives a hum of disapproval. Mobile games strike him as utterly pointless, especially when there are so many more interesting things to do with one's phone. He supposes, though, that as it seems to amuse John, he'll refrain from commenting. For now.

Besides, there are far more interesting things to do, things which rather require that he doesn't draw attention to himself. Things like turning his head just faintly, just so, to watch John in profile. His absorption in the new device is perfect cover for Sherlock to simply be close and observe, which is fairly novel and quite interesting. The last time he'd got this close a look was when John had fallen asleep next to him on a train, and then, apparently, it had been 'creepy' of him to stare. It probably is now, too. Maybe it's worse. He doesn't actually know where sleeping factors into the equation, as it's all nonsense to him.

It isn't as though he's planning on doing anything harmful or unsolicited. He's just watching. It's harmless. Completely harmless. He's just gathering data.

[substituteskull]

If John notices, and there's really no reason to suspect he does, he says nothing at all and just allows Sherlock to read over his shoulder while he alternates between manual and device and back again. John's app choices are both in bright, colourful, well ranked silly games and medical applications. The heart monitor and breath meter seem to be specifically aimed at his enjoyment and he may have giggled here or there when he realizes how well something works.

He tries neither on Sherlock, their friendship is solid but not the sort where John is interested in being too handsy either. That gets strange. 'Here, let me check out your heartbeat' is also pretty damned invasive and John Watson doesn't need his flatmate getting the wrong idea.

He's sort of inferred that Sherlock may have been on hard drugs in the passed. He's been exceptionally careful about bringing up testing for anything so as to not offend him.

"You know," he says, almost ten minutes later, setting down the phone with a smile and a slight glance up at the much too close Sherlock, "I do appreciate this. Thank you. Fantastic bloody gift."

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock straightens in silence and lays his hand atop John's head, expression vaguely thoughtful as he gives John's hair a gentle, fond ruffle. "Good," he murmurs as he steps away, letting his hand fall. "I'm glad."

It truly is a desirable outcome, and this satisfies him. There's something more to it, too, something he attributes to the earliest stages of his formation and the almost subconscious, instinctual remnants thereof: he takes an odd sort of satisfaction in taking care of John. It doesn't surprise him that he should -- androids were initially designed for the service sector, after all. He's still not certain it's truly beneficial for him. He was built for independence. This conflict between necessary self-sufficiency and the impulse to please isn't likely to be terribly healthy.

There it is, nonetheless. He simply wishes he could permit himself to enjoy it as much as he should.

But he'll not dwell on that. He goes for his own mobile instead, drifting absently out towards his sofa, tapping away at the keys. Doesn't anyone have work for him? It's time for a case. John is back, he's happy, he's not distracted by his girlfriend... now is the time. It should be the moment to go out and have a bit of fun. Not a date, apparently, though he still can't work out the difference between John's stated definition and his own ultimate intention.

Two people who like each other going out and having fun. And he's so caught up in trying to arrange precisely that that even though he's standing just next to the window overlooking the street, he fails to notice the car pulling up outside.

[substituteskull]

It's Mrs. Hudson that breaks the silence, only because she is surprised by Lestrade's quick flight up the stairs to stir her tenants when they've been so very good and quiet lately. No police, no searches, no worry about her herbal soothers-- It's been excellent for everyone, she figures, so the sight of the silver fox of the Yard does not make her pleased.

John's fairly surprised when Sherlock packs him up with the click of his fingers and sends him off with Lestrade instead of coming himself, stating something about using the new remote viewing feature of his mobile.

The trip out to the countryside is supposedly magical for a good Englishman, but John's never appreciated it unless it's with a riffle and a unit. He currently has none. Instead, he's working with a backwater police officer showing Sherlock the scene from afar.

It's really pretty silly and he really feels pathetic for enjoying it.

He feels significantly less pathetic, however, when he's whisked away in a helicopter. And landed on Buckingham Palace.

And sees Sherlock in a sheet. Sherlock wins.

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock isn't certain he really wins. He certainly doesn't appreciate having been interrupted alone in his flat and wrapped haphazardly in a sheet after the brief shower he'd taken after John's departure. He doesn't need to bathe, generally, but he finds the process pleasing. The sensory isolation helps him to think. He might have to alter his opinion of them, though, if this is something that's going to be happening often.

He'd thought that refusing to dress would be the end of it, at that. Mycroft wouldn't dare take him anywhere mostly naked. It's too much of a risk. The power input at his lower back is well-concealed below a watertight seal, a seam in the flesh which resembles a faint scar. The placement, though, makes its true nature fairly obvious, at least to anyone who is familiar with the inner workings of androids in general.

Sherlock had been wrong, though. Apparently that wasn't sufficient, and so here he is, sitting in puzzled, irritated silence on an expensive but uncomfortable couch. John's silent query as to what the bloody hell is going on is met with a shrug, because he really doesn't know either. And it's a bit... it's a bit awkward, really, the way they sit in silence next to one another, waiting. Until John asks if he's wearing any pants, anyhow.

"No," he responds matter-of-factly, and for another moment more there's silence. Sherlock can sense the laughter building in John and he joins in, because humans, he's gathered, like to laugh together. It's a thing that friends do, and though Sherlock still has some difficulty grasping the nuances of humour sometimes, this, he has to admit, is rather entertaining -- though his reasons for thinking so are broader than John's. It's not just that he's stark naked save for a sheet in Buckingham Palace, it's that he's an android who happens to be stark naked and wrapped in a sheet in Buckingham palace, and that he's likely here to be consulted regarding some problem or another by someone connected to the royal family -- who, in all likelihood, has no knowledge of his true nature.

He likes to think that if John were privy to that knowledge, he'd find it really quite funny too.

[substituteskull]

The sheer magnitude of sibling rivalry that afternoon has John laughing well into the early evening as Sherlock does his preliminary work and they head out before dark to canvas the neighborhood. John's been living in London for over a year now but he's never wandered into Belgravia, not even on a case with Sherlock. The posh neighbourhood is quite intimidating. The coffee shops are doubly expensive and everything is so clean. John doesn't like it.

He doesn't actually like being goaded into hitting Sherlock, which he realizes after he's given the man a nice bruise. He feels guilty almost immediately after, a spasm in his stomach a little harder to identity. John doesn't try. John doesn't want to try. The thought it disturbing. Everything seems to lead him right to this very idea that Sherlock--

Ugh.

It only gets worse when he walks in on what is little more than a naked woman sitting on Sherlock's lap. John had just been conversing with her red headed Android, Kate evidently, out in the hallway and-- And he's not prepared for any of this. He nearly drops the bowl. "A-Am I missing something?"

Evidently, yes, yes he is. He tries to keep his eyes on Irene in the mean time but his gaze keeps slipping right towards Sherlock.

Again.

He's still looking at him when the break in and assault happens. Still looking at him when he feels a gun barrel pressing against the back of his head.

It's not the first time he's been held like this. But that doesn't make him less worried.

[couldbdangerous]

Of course she knows. Clever. She is clever. She can see the colouration of the bruise, slightly darker than it ought to be, and for all of Sherlock's skill he can't tell a thing about her. And it's not that she's naked, not that he's never seen a living, naked woman in the flesh before. That doesn't distract him. Nor does her sudden, forced intimacy. It's the look in her eyes that does it. This woman, this human woman who knows and who wants into his head.

Who wants to know what it's like, being him. An android. That is novel. That is... revelatory. And confusing.

Reality slides back into place once it all goes to Hell, though. The gun pressed to John's head makes his brain light up with all sorts of things, overrides and imperatives and the sum result is that he wants to tear that smug American bastard limb from limb for daring even to suggest such a thing, the fool. Someday if he's very lucky he'll get to do it, too.

Such thoughts help nothing, though. The fact remains that Sherlock has failed John. He's failed him because he's failed to work out the safe's combination. He allowed himself to be distracted. Intrigued. And now he's terrified that John is going to die, and it will be his fault.

But there was something. Unless she's lied, there was something, something he noticed, had to have noticed but just didn't process. His eyes close a moment as the countdown goes on and he thinks, quick as he can. Numerical values. He knows the first two digits. What could he possibly have-- oh. Oh, there it is.

"Wait!" he begs. "Wait." He has it. How clever. How utterly vain, but clever. And it tells him something: she was waiting for him, and she wants him to notice. This is an experiment. One quick glance at her confirms that... and something else. His eyes turn to John for the announcement. He'll know what it means.

"Vatican cameos!"

The fact that the man holding the gun to John's head dies for it quiets the alarms in Sherlock's head -- and for this he truly feels like a freak. No android ought to be soothed by causing the death of a human.

[doctorsoldier]

She knows. She knows and John, who has slept upstairs and taken tea with him and put up with three in the morning violin concertos does not. Oh, he'd be upset if he knew how Irene Adler, high class prostitute and fantasy maker, could see right through Sherlock Holmes' brilliant disguise in less than a month and John, who has watched him for over a year like his favourite television program, has not noticed a thing out of place other than Sherlock being wildly eccentric.

For not, John is left cleaning up after a dead American, checking on android maids, and very carefully checking doors. Front. And Back. Discovering Sherlock suffering from what looks like a sedative he's fighting and is really a short range EMP burst to his docking port, John has to lid his anxiousness and try to get Irene talking. But she doesn't other than to wave it in her face that Sherlock's noticed her and her perfect measurements.

John hates her.

When she falls out the window, he's almost disappointed that she's not laying dead, skewered on the spikes of a garden fence.

John manages not to be caught stroking Sherlock's hair. He lets Lestrade do his video taping of the detective being carried down the stairs. And when Sherlock's tucked into bed, he crawled in with him the moment they're alone, puts his arm around him, and spends the next hour feeling phenomoneially guity for violating him with a spooning session while he's unconscious.

Sherlock doesn't need him. Sherlock wouldn't want this. And John needs to get over this odd little crush of his before it becomes a disaster.

[couldbdangerous]

Sherlock can't move. He's mostly aware, mostly awake but he can't move. His systems registered the shock before his brain could work out what happened. It had been far too occupied with Irene's closeness. With the way she'd taken the opportunity to touch his skin, to see what it was like and he'd let her until he'd felt the edge of her fingernail pressing against it where it had grown fragile, the bruise on his cheek. He'd caught her hand and pulled it away before she revealed what it wasn't hers to reveal. It's his secret, to tell as he wishes.

And the bruise is John's, not hers.

She'd moved to kiss him instead and he hadn't shied away. He'd meant to let her, for curiosity's sake, because living with John and being kissed weren't two things he could see coinciding, ever, and... well, who else would be interested? What other human would be interested? And she was, he suspected, at least curious, even if she had only used the opportunity to apply that horrible, painful little device to him.

And now he can't move. Not properly. He'd spent most of the trip home thinking about her, about their conversation, trying to work out something about her, and though it doesn't work, he ends up solving the case of the hiker in the mean time, which satisfies him.

Then there is John, slipping into bed with him for reasons he can't work out, but it makes him feel simultaneously safe and terrified. At least he's managed to keep breathing so far. If he were to truly slip into stasis -- which is coming, if he can't get to his charger within the next few hours -- then the doctor is apt to be alarmed. No life signs at all. As good as dead.

So it's a relief, really, when John does leave and Sherlock can begin the slow process of retrieving his power cord. He's less relieved when his second visitor appears, slips in through the window and moves to his bed. He tries to call for John to come help him catch the infuriating woman, but it doesn't quite work. He can only manage to produce his name at normal volume, no good with the door closed.

"Shhh," Irene reassures him, pressing a fingertip to his lips. "I'm just returning your coat."

And turning him over to plug him in, it seems, and that is welcome. She bends to kiss his cheek before departing again and Sherlock begins to stir. The influx of power lets him reset his systems without draining himself completely. Motor functions, language, everything should be shortly back online but there's no bloody time for that, so it's only a few minutes before he pulls the cord from his back again, letting it fall to the floor, where he shortly follows.

Perhaps it's a bit too early yet. And perhaps he should wipe at his cheek, as John is apt to be even angrier when he notices the faint lipstick mark there.