Time Strips the Gears Till You Forget What They Were For
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 ( Read more... )
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 ( Read more... )
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"She got away," he explains softly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but we found no trace of her. You really should go back to bed." And that sentence brings up the worst emotions. John pushed them down because they're entirely too ugly.
He grumbles to himself and leaves the room.
"Just go to bed." And when Sherlock insists on looking under his bed rather than getting into it, it's all John can do to toss the man, literally, back into the quilts. "And stay or I'm calling your brother."
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So it isn't mentioned just yet, that bout of cuddling. That's fine. He can ask about it later. The fact that he probably oughtn't bring it up at all doesn't occur to him. He didn't mind, still doesn't mind, and assumes that John knows that he doesn't mind. They had, after all, spent much of the morning teasing one another about being married; permitting oneself to be snuggled in bed is just one small aspect of the duties of a spouse.
But not now. Now he'll lay sullenly in bed, still save when he reaches down to pick up his power cord again. Silent. Sulking.
Until his mobile goes off, anyhow. And he's beyond certain that it's never made that sound before. Nor would he ever think to program it to do so. He's not certain at first what it is, in fact, and sits up sharply to stare over in the direction from whence it came. The pocket of his coat, which is lit up from the inside. Mobile. Yes. Why?
Is that supposed to titillate him? Is he supposed to be intrigued? To feel lust? To be aroused? It isn't working, if so. Mostly he's just puzzled, and resolves to ignore it. All a part of the experiment. He'll let it be. No tampering with the testing material.
That doesn't mean he has to let it affect him in any way, though. It's certainly not him that's bothered when it goes off at breakfast the next morning.
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He has no idea what's going on and decides not to ask any further. He just picks up his plate and heads into the kitchen. Leave it to Sherlock to get a dominatrix girlfriend who somehow has managed to make her texts into moans! Who would that be? Who else would do that?
John has to still himself. Before he fumes. His fingers tighten around the edge of the sink. Right. Nothing about this is right. At all.
Emotions are fine. He's human. He understands them, but he's having a really hard time figuring out why they're so strong. He just won't let himself understand is the real trouble.
"Are you feeling all right now?" he asks from the kitchen. "I've some errands... Just don't want to leave you alone if you're not well. Still dont know what she gave you."
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"I know what she gave me," he adds, standing and slipping his mobile into his pocket. "Nothing serious. It'll have been worked out of my system by now."
The fact that he's been able to return to 100% operating capacity overnight is slightly worrying, actually. Either she knows more about his specifications than anyone other than he and Mycroft have any right, or she was extraordinarily lucky in her selection of EMP device. He'd recovered too quickly for it to have been a standard low-end pulse device. He shrugs the thought off as he moves into the kitchen to stand behind John.
"Though if you've need for it, I'd not mind tagging along. I suspect Mycroft will want to come to shout at me for letting the woman get away. I'd like to avoid it if it's all the same." He also wants to keep an eye on John, frankly. The man is behaving strangely. Maybe... maybe he's jealous of Sherlock? Irene was all over him, and John's just broken up with his girlfriend...
The thought makes him reach out to place his hand on his friend's shoulder in an attempt at reassurance. There's nothing to be jealous of, really. She only likes him because he's exotic, and he's not terribly interested himself. Curious about her, yes. Perhaps slowly becoming immersed in the Adler problem, perhaps grudgingly admiring, yes, but nothing more.
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"That's exactly why you should stay," he says cryptically before swallowing and turning his attention back towards his friend. "Mycroft. Your brother is going to want a debriefing. I really do not want to be around for that." John laughs and it's genuine. The Holmes together do terrify him.
And, likely, they terrify everyone else as well. It's really only natural for John to want to head out for a bit.
He did almost die yesterday.
"Stay and rest until your brother comes over...and text me when he's gone, all right?"
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His hand tightens on John's shoulder briefly, thumb pressing gently into the muscle (interesting; it doesn't quite feel like his own -- less dense, more malleable) before he lets go and steps back with a sigh. "Well," he says resignedly, "if you must leave me, then you should do it now. It's nearly time for Mycroft's lunch break."
Which he'd have to cut short to visit Sherlock, at that. That always makes him grumpy. Sherlock doesn't understand his infatuation with food. It strikes him as wasteful. Android bodies rarely need it, human bodies always do. Prioritizing in that regard makes sense, as he does with John. Mycroft prefers his luxury, though. Sherlock secretly suspects he's had himself modified to process what he ingests faster, at that.
His mobile goes off again as he heads for the sofa and he gives it a brief glance before setting it unceremoniously on the table and proceeding to ignore it once more. What is the point? There has to be a point. The texts are more annoying than they are intriguing, and easy to ignore. He suspects if she were really courting him, she'd put more effort into it, at that. As seductions go, it's rather crap, particularly given the nature of her target -- and that surprises him. He knows from experience that she can be much more aggressive and much more convincing.
So this, this strikes him as odd. Perhaps she's just testing the degree to which he is similar to average human males in terms of sexuality. If she expects a real reaction, she's bound to be disappointed. He's very much like a standard service model in that regard -- capable of engaging in sexual activity, should a prospective partner so desire it (and should he himself be willing, which is the sole modification), and capable of experiencing physical pleasure (which, it was discovered years ago, is easier to program than the sexual mores and behaviours which naturally result from this) but lacking a true sex drive under normal circumstances. Perhaps one day he'll develop one. Perhaps that's what she's trying to achieve. Sherlock doesn't expect she'll succeed.
He's still thinking about it when Mycroft arrives to shout him off the case, and thinking about it all the harder when he leaves, to the point that it's a few minutes before he remembers to pick up his mobile and text John the all-clear.
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He smiles too, watches the big black car drift off again, and sighs reluctantly to get the text from Sherlock. The coast is clear. He knows that. And while common sense tells him to just linger in the shop for a little while, Sherlock is bought to know by a stain on his shirt or a scent on his wrist where he's been. And he'll know by the fact that John always checks his texts right away that he's been purposefully stalling so...
So John drags himself upstairs, rubbing his eyebrow, and peeks in the door to survey the damage.
"No nuclear explosion this time? That's a relief. Any broken bones?"
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And if he's quite honest, he's also interested in continuing the sort of flirtation with Adler that they'd shared in person. None of this texting nonsense. No attempts at romance. Just a showdown of intellects, the mutual curiosity and admiration that they'd shared before. It doesn't much bother him that it won't happen now, though. There will always be other geniuses to pit himself against, and without the confusing overtones of sensuality to wade through in the process.
He looks up at John, thoughtful. "What about you? The problem, did you work it out?"
Obviously there was (is?) a problem. John wouldn't have left in such a hurry if there weren't and he certainly wouldn't have spent all his time running 'errands' eating in the sandwich shop downstairs. The speed of his arrival confirms it, along with the faint smell of the place that he carries in with him. The crumbs on his shirt don't help matters.
Sherlock considers it tactful not to overtly mention any of that. What he says next, though, is astoundingly tactless in a way in which he utterly fails to notice. He makes an oversight, and that oversight is sleep and the fact that most humans engage in it, particularly after being drugs. "If it's about last night it should really be obvious by now that I don't mind."
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John's already thinking the worse. Sherlock hadn't been awake for it, no. Hadn't needed to be. John's cologne was on the sheets, shampoo on the pillow next to him. A mark from John's boot was on the mattress. The shuffle of fabric had been consistent with John's body and-- It just drives him mad. So he chuckles a little and confesses.
"Or that I napped a bit in your bed with you? Sorry. I wanted to be sure you didn't stop breathing."
Lies. And Sherlock can unwrap them, each of them. Does that mean that he knows what John won't let himself know?
He's just going to hyperventilate here, all right?
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