Backup Copies (2/2), John/Sherlock, R
Title: Backup Copies (2/2)
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 13,400 words (total)
Summary: When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.
Warnings: temporary character death, non-explicit torture
Notes: Written for this prompt on the kink meme.
Prologue
Part 1
John calls Harry to explains things, more or less, to her.
It turns into a visit to her flat, where she doesn't recognize him at first. When she finally listens, he holds her on the sofa and strokes her hair as she cries into his shoulder, whispering their shared memories to her, things only they would know.
I saw you kissing your girlfriend when you were thirteen, and you were scared I would tell, but I never did.
We found a stray dog on the street when we were kids. We named him Scamp, but Mum made us give him back to his real owners when they called, and after that, we went to the pond and caught frogs.
You gave me a jumper before I was deployed, and I wore it whenever I could. It got ruined on a case with Sherlock, I think -- it's not in my drawers anymore.
"It's me, it's really me," he promises as she fists her hands in his jumper. "I got a new body and I lost the whole year before I died and they had to give it back to me in pieces, but it's still me."
"You died." There is a wet spot on his shoulder, and probably snot on his jumper too, but he doesn't mind, because she's his baby sister and he loves her and that's what matters. It doesn't matter that they don't get on or that normally, they talk once a month at most. She's blood."You were gone."
"I know, I know," he says, and strokes her hair. "I'm sorry. But I came back."
He wishes it could be this easy with Sherlock, but he knows already why it can't.
When John died and lost a year, it'd left him with thirty-six others in which he'd been Harry's older brother. He doesn't remember anything about Harry from the past year, but then, he doesn't really remember anything in particular about Harry from his second year at Bart's either.
It doesn't matter, because he knows what she looks like when she cries, and the way she flails her arms when she's really mad, and the way she'd looked, pale and terrified, when she'd told him she was a lesbian and that wasn't going to change and please, please would he help her hide it from their parents?
But he'd only had the one year with Sherlock, and when it'd gone and been filled with things -- surveillance footage and case notes and blog entries, there'd been spaces left over, big gaping holes where familiarity should be but isn't. The only things keeping he and Sherlock from being strangers are the things Mycroft put in his head.
There are in-jokes he should know that fall flat, habits Sherlock has that he doesn't recognize, and a multitude of conversations he's lost and can't get back.
--
Sherlock's case goes off without a hitch, and John feels a warm pleasure at being able to introduce himself as John Watson again. He's even got his old service record back, albeit with some details changed to fit in with his younger body.
Throughout the case, there are sparks of animation in Sherlock's demeanor, moments where he's in his element and happy, and it makes something clench tightly inside John's chest because every time Sherlock turns and sees him, his expression shutters closed.
But less so now than before.
--
The thing between them -- started when Sherlock embraced him in the dead of night and said, I'm sorry I let you die, finally spills into action on a rainy day while they're both trapped in the flat.
"Are you even attracted to men, or is it just me?" Sherlock asks, apropos of nothing. He seems to think John being technically a copy of himself makes him more prone to answering highly invasive personal questions.
John, for the most part, puts up with it. There are worse things Sherlock could be doing, right now, than questioning John about something he already knows the answer to. "I'm sure you know the answer to this one already," he says.
"You didn't date a man the entire time we lived together before your death, but now you show signs of arousal and interest when you meet an attractive man. And now you're attracted to me." In his peripheral vision, John can see Sherlock narrow his eyes. "You're a doll, so obviously anything you know or feel is suspect. Mycroft could have ordered them to manufacture --"
"You're really overthinking things, Sherlock," John interrupts before Sherlock can accuse John of not being real. Again. "I'm bisexual, I've always been bisexual, and I just find it easier to date women so that's what I do."
"Have you slept with a man before?"
"You have got to be kidding -- Of course I've slept with a man before. Have you?"
"On occasion. Not often."
Trying to understand Sherlock's thought processes is really, really not worth the trouble. John pinches the bridge of his nose. "And why are you asking me this?"
Sherlock is quiet for long enough that John goes back to writing his blog entry -- new blog, because keeping a blog had turned out more enjoyable than he'd expected, but the old one belonged to his old life.
"Before you died, I was in love with you."
John chokes on his tea. Half of it ends up on his keyboard. When he can breathe again, he wipes at the droplets with the sleeve of his jumper. His face burns. "You're in love with me?"
"With who you were," Sherlock corrects sharply, but a pale flush rises on his cheeks.
John's at a loss for words. "Oh. Well that's -- uh, flattering."
"I didn't say it to flatter you."
"Okay? So why did you say it?"
"I wanted to see your reaction."
"You're not going to tell me why you wanted to see my reaction, are you."
Sherlock's attention has already gone. He looks up briefly when John asks. "Hmm? No."
--
Sherlock kisses him the next day, slow and thoughtful when John's doing the washing up. John kisses him back. He stops when Sherlock pulls away. "That was nice," he says, and finishes rinsing the plate in his hands. "Experiment?"
Sherlock must have been expecting more of a reaction, because he makes a displeased face at John. "Yes."
"Okay." There have been worse experiments. In comparison, this one's rather painless.
"Well? Aren't you going to ask?" Sherlock demands when John puts the plate on the rack and reaches for the next dish.
It is really quite entertaining to wind Sherlock up. "No, but you're welcome to tell me if you want."
"I find myself sexually attracted to you. This doesn't usually happen."
"Doesn't it?"
"Not to me," and Sherlock scowls, as if his body's suddenly betrayed him.
"Well, you don't have to do anything about it if you don't want," John offers, and sets aside the rest of the washing up for later. He dries his hands on a dishrag.
"But that's the problem! I do want to!"
"Did you want to before?" Before I died, before I told you I loved you.
Sherlock's expression becomes distinctly guarded. "Sometimes."
"I didn't know. I never knew, did I?"
"Obviously not," Sherlock says, in the derisive tone of voice that's become familiar once more. He looks John up and down. It's a look Sherlock's never given him before, a look he's gotten from plenty of men in pubs but never Sherlock -- not to him and not to the original John either. "We should have sex."
John suppresses the shiver of anticipation that runs down his spine at the idea. Because he's wondered about it -- it was one of the first things he wondered, in fact, whether he and Sherlock were more than friends. Whether after their cases, fueled on adrenaline and excitement, they'd tumbled together on the bed, or the floor, or the sofa. But... "Why?"
"Isn't wanting to reason enough?"
No, it's not, but there is something carefully guarded in Sherlock's voice -- there is a real reason, something he doesn't want to share, yet, with John.
John thinks about what he'd do in Sherlock's place -- if he'd been in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock had died and then come back almost but not quite the same. But then he thinks, I've never done this before. It'll be the first thing he does with Sherlock that won't be playing catch-up against himself. Every gasp he coaxes from Sherlock's mouth, every spot he learns with his tongue, will be new for the both of them.
He wants, very much, to have something of Sherlock's that wasn't the other John's, first.
So he says, "I guess it is," and splays his hand over Sherlock's waist, and kisses him.
--
Sherlock doesn't usually stick around afterwards -- he tries the first time, but it becomes obvious after a few minutes that he's bored of laying still, and starts to fidget when John would like nothing more than to go to sleep.
"You won't hurt my feelings if you get up to do something else," John says finally, when Sherlock's fingertips begin to tap a rapid melody on his hip. "I know you have an experiment in the sink that you're working on."
The fingers still. "It's not a reflection on yourself, of course," Sherlock says, already slipping out of John's bed and picking up his clothes. John watches him dress. "I just get --"
"Bored. I know. It's fine. I don't mind."
But sometimes Sherlock does spend the night, curled tentatively around John's body. Those times, when the night grows still and peaceful, Sherlock will tell him things about their time together that John doesn't remember.
"You're the one who shot the cabbie, on our first case together," Sherlock will say, and John will nod against his shoulder, because he's guessed as much already. "Afterwards," Sherlock will continue, "we joked about how he'd been neither a nice man nor a good cabbie, and you told me we shouldn't giggle at crime scenes."
"Did I tell you that you were an idiot about the pills and make you watch the Princess Bride too?"
"Yes, actually."
"That's good," John will murmur, eyes closing. "It was the first thing I thought of when I read my blog entry again."
Another time, Sherlock will tell him, "There was a month, once, where you changed your computer password daily, but you weren't very creative with it. You started with Harry's name and your birthdate, but by the end of it, your passwords were all some variation of 'Piss off, Sherlock'. But with incorrect punctuation."
"No one punctuates their computer passwords," John will say into Sherlock's hair. "They're passwords."
"When you said that the last time, I changed your password to "Sherlock punctuates his passwords." Full stop and all."
"Git," John will reply with an affectionate chuckle, and tangle their fingers together.
Once, only once, Sherlock will say, "You don't do it anymore because you don't have the nightmares. But before, when night terrors woke you up, you would sometimes put your firearm on the table and stare at it. I don't know what you were thinking about when you did it, and I never asked."
And John will tighten his arms around Sherlock and not say anything in response.
--
Sherlock takes a case for Scotland Yard, next. Lestrade had never stopped texting Sherlock about the cases, but it is the first time since John's death that he's replied to one. When they arrive at the crime scene -- burglary that'd turned to murder, Lestrade gives him a long, strange look.
"John?" he asks cautiously, when John hangs back with him to let Sherlock examine the body.
John nods. "Mycroft told you, I assume?"
"Well," Lestrade says, "He says they put you in another body. I'm not sure I'd believe him, if not for Sherlock. He's... He's a lot better than he was after you died."
"Yeah, he is, isn't he?" Still not the same yet, but better. He's put on more of the weight he's lost, and spends less time being dreadfully, frighteningly quiet.
"I'm glad you're back." Lestrade bumps their shoulders together, and John knows this gesture -- has seen it before, from an outsider's perspective. "We should catch up. See how much you lost. Pub later?"
They've gone to the pub before, after cases, just the two of them, coming out hours later laughing and clasping arms. John doesn't know what they talked about (Sherlock, probably). "Sounds lovely."
Sherlock turns to call for him, and John watches his face fall momentarily as he stops, remembering, and then brighten, remembering again.
"John! Come here and look at this puncture mark!"
--
After an initial awkwardness where John doesn't know what to call the Detective Inspector ("Lestrade when I'm being a copper, and Greg if we're having a pint together"), they get on surprisingly well. Greg hadn't been as close to him as Sherlock had been, before his death, so John doesn't feel loss of his memories as keenly. Repairing what'd been between them feels less insurmountable.
He mentions as much, after his second beer.
"Everything's more complicated when it's about Sherlock Bloody Holmes," Greg agrees. "But I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. When Moriarty got you, it was pretty bad."
"What happened to me?" John asks. A morbid part of him wants to know. "It's not something they told me, and I don't want to ask Sherlock."
Greg's expression becomes troubled, and he fiddles with his glass before speaking. "He kidnapped and tortured you to death. I don't know the details, because Sherlock called his brother in first thing and got the case handed off to one of the special teams."
"What happened to Sherlock?"
"Worked himself to the bone looking for you, and after you died,worked twice as hard to hunt down Moriarty."
Sherlock had hunted down Moriarty, and killed him. Months ago, Mycroft had said. John nods. "And then what?"
"And then he disappeared into his flat and stayed there for months, driving us all half-mad with worry, until Mycroft brought you back."
John takes a deep drink from his beer. "And you?"
"I went to your funeral. And I'm bloody ecstatic to have you back, even if you're not quite the same. But I've had friends die, before, in the line of duty. I could cope. You were probably the only one, for Sherlock."
It's not a pleasant thought, that he may have been the only one who'd gotten that close to Sherlock. That John had died, and left him alone.
"Let's talk about something else," John declares. "The highlights of the last year. Any good films get released?"
Apparently, yes, so they talk about the latest films John needs to catch up on, then Greg shares some funny stories about Sherlock, both after he'd met John the first time and before, until he catches sight of his watch and realizes he's got work the next day.
Greg wraps him in a tight hug outside the pub. "It's great having you back, John," he says. "Give Sherlock my regards."
"It's good to be back."
--
"Don't you think one treatment a week is excessive?" John asks Mycroft, as he sits down in the chair-shaped machine. The black car had pulled up next to him only a week after his previous "treatment".
"Sherlock's started taking cases again, and considering how often he seems to find himself in mortal peril, I decided it'd be wise," Mycroft replies.
Topher makes a distressed sound. He's been at each of John's treatments so far, despite previously working at a Dollhouse in America, and seems to be the one in charge of handling John's imprint. John can't tell if that's Mycroft's doing, or if it's because he just makes an interesting case study. "Mortal peril? Dolls are expensive! The Active architecture is expensive! I thought we were imprinting a friend for your brother, not putting an untrained doll in combat situations. Let me give him some skills -- it's just one tweak of the imprint, and then John Watson, Doctor will become John Watson, Ninja."
"John?" Mycroft looks at him expectantly.
"Um. No thanks."
"Doctor Watson has military training. I'm sure he'll be fine."
--
Now that he has a proper identity again -- a permanent one, hopefully, John gets properly settled into a new job. Slowly, he begins to feel less awkward about being in a body that didn't originally belong to him, and Sherlock must be coming to terms with it as well, because John gets fewer and fewer glimpses of the grief that had covered Sherlock like a cloak before.
Eventually, Sherlock stops telling John about himself, and when John asks why he stopped, Sherlock says, "I can't think of anything I haven't already told you that you shouldn't already know."
"What about when Moriarty kidnapped me the second time?" John asks, because there are details he doesn't know, details he'll never know, and while he's okay with that, he wants to know everything else.
"He took you on the 17th of January," Sherlock begins, "and sent me an email to gloat."
John can identify the places where Sherlock glazes over the details -- places where I questioned an associate of Moriarty's really means I tortured a man for information, or they'd already moved you when I reached the location, but I was able to find a lead is just a nicer way of saying Moriarty's men were still there, so I hurt them.
Sherlock's voice breaks and his fingers clench tight around John's when he describes the proof of John's death -- his heart, carved out of him and sent to the flat, and the DNA checks returning positive, and he skips to the ending rather quickly after that. "I finally found him in a safe house in Spain, and then I killed him. Mycroft retrieved me as I was finishing, and I returned to London."
"How did Mycroft manage to track you down so quickly, before you could get away? I didn't think he had that kind of power, outside of Britain," John says.
"I love you," Sherlock replies, apparently to completely distract John from what he says next, which is, "And I'd been killing Moriarty for six days, by the time Mycroft found me. It would have been longer, but someone had found the bodies of his guards and reported them to the police."
It takes a conscious effort not to focus on the first part of Sherlock's response rather than the last, but he manages it. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what to say to that. What do you say when someone says to you, When you died, I went on a killing spree?
He finally settles for, "Just don't... Don't do anything like that again." He feels like he's been punched in the chest. "I don't want you to murder people for me."
"Not even if they deserve it?"
"No," John repeats firmly.
"Not even if I won't get caught or punished?"
"No." For a second, John's afraid Sherlock's going to ask why not?
But he doesn't. "I'll try."
--
When John wakes from a routine treatment, the first thing he hears is Topher's voice, saying, "-- this would happen. Can I make him a badass ninja now?"
He sits up. Sherlock is standing in the corner next to Mycroft, lips pursed. He hadn't been there when John had closed his eyes, and now that he's paying attention, he can tell that he's been placed in a new body. His hands are different.
"I died again, didn't I?" he says, and rubs his hands over his face. This is beginning to become a habit, one he'd rather not have. "What happened?"
"What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock asks.
"Stopping by after work for a treatment. Um... Mycroft asking about how the dog fighting case was going? Something went wrong on the case, I take it?"
"The dog fighting ring was a front for a drug trafficking organization. During the case, you jumped in front of a bullet for me and bled out before the police could arrive."
"Oh. How long's it been since...?"
"It's been two days since your death, and five since your last treatment," Mycroft says smoothly. "Once I heard what happened, I had another doll shipped in from the states for you. Sherlock, do try to take better care of your toys."
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters, but his eyes are focused on John.
--
They get only a couple feet into the hallway at home before Sherlock's crowding him up against a wall, running his hands up John's arms and cupping his chin, turning his head this way and that. After a minute or so, he ducks his head to bury his face in John's neck. "John. I -- I was worried for you."
"I'm sorry."
"I held you as you died. I knew Mycroft would be able to bring you back, but you suffered."
"Well, at least you got out of it okay," John says, and pushes Sherlock back just far enough to kiss him. Sherlock doesn't kiss him back. "Something wrong?"
Sherlock's frowning. "You don't feel -- your body isn't familiar to me. Even though the rest of you -- the way you hold yourself, your manner of speaking, your facial expressions, are all the same. Actually," he continues, voice changing as his thoughts distract him, "it's rather fascinating."
"I'm still the same person. Just think of me as the Doctor regenerating. Only without the personality changes."
"What? The what? Are you talking about a film?"
"TV series. I used to watch it as a kid, and then they made a remake of it while I was in Afghanistan. Still haven't got around to seeing the new ones, actually."
"Hmm," Sherlock says, and presses their mouths together. "You kiss the same way."
"The imprint only holds my muscle memory, not anyone else's," John says. "I'm still left-handed too."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock says, and kisses him again, as slow and exploratory as if it's their first time again.
--
"Sherlock?"
"Mhmm?"
"You didn't kill anyone this time, did you?"
"No. They're in police custody."
"Okay. Just checking."
--
John's new body is similar enough to his old one that they could have been related, and Mycroft offers to pull strings to get him his job at the hospital back without too many questions. He accepts, if only because he really, really doesn't want to have to go through the process of rebuilding his life again.
The second death's easier than his first -- mind, he doesn't remember either of them, but this time all he has to do is call Harry to let her know he's going to look different (again) when they meet up next, and send a text to Lestrade saying that he's back and fine, really.
This time, there's only a five-day gap where there's nothing, and it's as if John had only been asleep. He can handle that.
"Did anything important happen since my last treatment?" John asks as he looks through his email inbox and sent messages folder. There's no new post on his blog, but that's because they hadn't finished the case yet.
"Nothing in particular," Sherlock replies, and then, "Mr. Brink offered to give you martial arts training, but you refused. Why?"
"I don't know." It'd just seemed strange, the idea of having someone else's knowledge in his mind. Where would he end and they begin? But it'd be useful. "Would it bother you if I let them? Would it change who I am?"
"The technology is capable of installing skills without causing damage to the original personality."
"Do you think I should?"
Sherlock looks away. "I don't like to see you get hurt."
--
In the near future, John will allow the Dollhouse to give him more combat training, and it will save their lives when they get themselves into a bit of a scrape when chasing a case that brings them head to head with some of the Met's crooked coppers.
John will laugh, a little hysterically, staring at his hands like he's never seen them before even though he's been in the same body for more than a year now, and he will say, "Well, I guess that turned out useful, didn't it?"
Sherlock will smother a giggle, and squeeze John's hand, and say against John's face, "Good. I wasn't looking forward to having to pick out another body for you. You know how I hate shopping."
Afterwards, Mycroft will visit with a proposal and Sherlock will sigh and pluck discordant notes from the strings of his violin and John will say, "Are you sure that's a good idea?", and "Is that safe?" It will lead to a set of Active architecture installed in the back of Sherlock's neck and embedded in his brain.
Dangerous, perhaps, but not as dangerous as it could be, because this architecture is different from the set in John's body and in the other dolls. This one is special, is sanctioned by the government, protected and kept secret and guarded zealously. By Sherlock's older brother, and if there's one thing about Mycroft that John trusts, it's that Mycroft will do anything in his power to protect Sherlock from harm.
Mycroft wields a not inconsiderable amount of power.
But there are limits to what they can be taught, and eventually, after some years have passed, all the extra training and knowledge the Dollhouse provides them will not be enough to save them, because ultimately, they are only human.
This is how it will end:
John will wake up, and he won't know what day it is, or how long he's been gone. He will open his eyes and be disoriented, and he will see Mycroft, older now, standing at his side. He will look at his hands, and stretch, and feel youth in his body that he hasn't felt in years.
And he will hear a noise, and he will turn around, and there will be someone else -- a tall, dark-haired man who is just as young as John's new body is, sitting up and rubbing his face. And there will be a moment, where John's confused, because while he's never seen this man before in his life, John knows who he is, deep in his chest, because it's Sherlock and Sherlock is as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror isn't.
"Sherlock?" John will ask. "Is that you?"
"John," Sherlock will reply, looking first down at himself, then at John. "I take it our latest case ended unfortunately. Did we find the murderers?"
"You were able to confirm their identity. The case is solved," Mycroft informs them. "But the warehouse you tracked him to was a trap, and you were both killed in the subsequent explosion."
At that, Sherlock will look at Mycroft, his eyes gone intent and focused, and he will say to his brother, "How much did you orchestrate, making it so that even on our deaths, you could bring us back? On my death."
"Not as much as you're thinking, dear brother," Mycroft will say. "But the technology has such interesting potential, don't you agree? It's made so many promising advances in the past few years, and now there's precedent."
John may not be as smart as the Holmes brothers, but he's no imbecile, and he will have no trouble connecting the dots, taking people who are invaluable and those who are expendable, and adding them together to reach the inevitable conclusion.
"Is that why you did it?" Sherlock will ask. "So there's a precedent when you grow even older and fatter than you already are?"
"I did it because you're family," Mycroft will respond more curtly, lips tilting downwards in displeasure. "Unlike you, I don't put myself in mortal peril every other week. It may prove useful in the future, but my primary concern for the present was you. Besides, you really should keep yourself more up-to-date with the latest breakthroughs in human cloning. It's a fascinating subject, one I hope will prove relevant within the next couple decades."
On their way home, Sherlock will nudge John with his shoulder. When John looks at him, Sherlock will say, "Mrs. Hudson already knows about us, as do Lestrade and your sister. We can continue our lives as they were before."
"Yeah, that sounds good." John will reply. "Have any other good cases on?"
"I might," Sherlock will answer and later they will go to solve a crime, as they always do, wearing new bodies but with everything else the same.
This is how it will end.
Or maybe, this is how it will really begin.
Rating: R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 13,400 words (total)
Summary: When John dies, Sherlock doesn't know what to do. But Mycroft does. Dollhouse crossover.
Warnings: temporary character death, non-explicit torture
Notes: Written for this prompt on the kink meme.
Prologue
Part 1
John calls Harry to explains things, more or less, to her.
It turns into a visit to her flat, where she doesn't recognize him at first. When she finally listens, he holds her on the sofa and strokes her hair as she cries into his shoulder, whispering their shared memories to her, things only they would know.
I saw you kissing your girlfriend when you were thirteen, and you were scared I would tell, but I never did.
We found a stray dog on the street when we were kids. We named him Scamp, but Mum made us give him back to his real owners when they called, and after that, we went to the pond and caught frogs.
You gave me a jumper before I was deployed, and I wore it whenever I could. It got ruined on a case with Sherlock, I think -- it's not in my drawers anymore.
"It's me, it's really me," he promises as she fists her hands in his jumper. "I got a new body and I lost the whole year before I died and they had to give it back to me in pieces, but it's still me."
"You died." There is a wet spot on his shoulder, and probably snot on his jumper too, but he doesn't mind, because she's his baby sister and he loves her and that's what matters. It doesn't matter that they don't get on or that normally, they talk once a month at most. She's blood."You were gone."
"I know, I know," he says, and strokes her hair. "I'm sorry. But I came back."
He wishes it could be this easy with Sherlock, but he knows already why it can't.
When John died and lost a year, it'd left him with thirty-six others in which he'd been Harry's older brother. He doesn't remember anything about Harry from the past year, but then, he doesn't really remember anything in particular about Harry from his second year at Bart's either.
It doesn't matter, because he knows what she looks like when she cries, and the way she flails her arms when she's really mad, and the way she'd looked, pale and terrified, when she'd told him she was a lesbian and that wasn't going to change and please, please would he help her hide it from their parents?
But he'd only had the one year with Sherlock, and when it'd gone and been filled with things -- surveillance footage and case notes and blog entries, there'd been spaces left over, big gaping holes where familiarity should be but isn't. The only things keeping he and Sherlock from being strangers are the things Mycroft put in his head.
There are in-jokes he should know that fall flat, habits Sherlock has that he doesn't recognize, and a multitude of conversations he's lost and can't get back.
--
Sherlock's case goes off without a hitch, and John feels a warm pleasure at being able to introduce himself as John Watson again. He's even got his old service record back, albeit with some details changed to fit in with his younger body.
Throughout the case, there are sparks of animation in Sherlock's demeanor, moments where he's in his element and happy, and it makes something clench tightly inside John's chest because every time Sherlock turns and sees him, his expression shutters closed.
But less so now than before.
--
The thing between them -- started when Sherlock embraced him in the dead of night and said, I'm sorry I let you die, finally spills into action on a rainy day while they're both trapped in the flat.
"Are you even attracted to men, or is it just me?" Sherlock asks, apropos of nothing. He seems to think John being technically a copy of himself makes him more prone to answering highly invasive personal questions.
John, for the most part, puts up with it. There are worse things Sherlock could be doing, right now, than questioning John about something he already knows the answer to. "I'm sure you know the answer to this one already," he says.
"You didn't date a man the entire time we lived together before your death, but now you show signs of arousal and interest when you meet an attractive man. And now you're attracted to me." In his peripheral vision, John can see Sherlock narrow his eyes. "You're a doll, so obviously anything you know or feel is suspect. Mycroft could have ordered them to manufacture --"
"You're really overthinking things, Sherlock," John interrupts before Sherlock can accuse John of not being real. Again. "I'm bisexual, I've always been bisexual, and I just find it easier to date women so that's what I do."
"Have you slept with a man before?"
"You have got to be kidding -- Of course I've slept with a man before. Have you?"
"On occasion. Not often."
Trying to understand Sherlock's thought processes is really, really not worth the trouble. John pinches the bridge of his nose. "And why are you asking me this?"
Sherlock is quiet for long enough that John goes back to writing his blog entry -- new blog, because keeping a blog had turned out more enjoyable than he'd expected, but the old one belonged to his old life.
"Before you died, I was in love with you."
John chokes on his tea. Half of it ends up on his keyboard. When he can breathe again, he wipes at the droplets with the sleeve of his jumper. His face burns. "You're in love with me?"
"With who you were," Sherlock corrects sharply, but a pale flush rises on his cheeks.
John's at a loss for words. "Oh. Well that's -- uh, flattering."
"I didn't say it to flatter you."
"Okay? So why did you say it?"
"I wanted to see your reaction."
"You're not going to tell me why you wanted to see my reaction, are you."
Sherlock's attention has already gone. He looks up briefly when John asks. "Hmm? No."
--
Sherlock kisses him the next day, slow and thoughtful when John's doing the washing up. John kisses him back. He stops when Sherlock pulls away. "That was nice," he says, and finishes rinsing the plate in his hands. "Experiment?"
Sherlock must have been expecting more of a reaction, because he makes a displeased face at John. "Yes."
"Okay." There have been worse experiments. In comparison, this one's rather painless.
"Well? Aren't you going to ask?" Sherlock demands when John puts the plate on the rack and reaches for the next dish.
It is really quite entertaining to wind Sherlock up. "No, but you're welcome to tell me if you want."
"I find myself sexually attracted to you. This doesn't usually happen."
"Doesn't it?"
"Not to me," and Sherlock scowls, as if his body's suddenly betrayed him.
"Well, you don't have to do anything about it if you don't want," John offers, and sets aside the rest of the washing up for later. He dries his hands on a dishrag.
"But that's the problem! I do want to!"
"Did you want to before?" Before I died, before I told you I loved you.
Sherlock's expression becomes distinctly guarded. "Sometimes."
"I didn't know. I never knew, did I?"
"Obviously not," Sherlock says, in the derisive tone of voice that's become familiar once more. He looks John up and down. It's a look Sherlock's never given him before, a look he's gotten from plenty of men in pubs but never Sherlock -- not to him and not to the original John either. "We should have sex."
John suppresses the shiver of anticipation that runs down his spine at the idea. Because he's wondered about it -- it was one of the first things he wondered, in fact, whether he and Sherlock were more than friends. Whether after their cases, fueled on adrenaline and excitement, they'd tumbled together on the bed, or the floor, or the sofa. But... "Why?"
"Isn't wanting to reason enough?"
No, it's not, but there is something carefully guarded in Sherlock's voice -- there is a real reason, something he doesn't want to share, yet, with John.
John thinks about what he'd do in Sherlock's place -- if he'd been in love with Sherlock, and Sherlock had died and then come back almost but not quite the same. But then he thinks, I've never done this before. It'll be the first thing he does with Sherlock that won't be playing catch-up against himself. Every gasp he coaxes from Sherlock's mouth, every spot he learns with his tongue, will be new for the both of them.
He wants, very much, to have something of Sherlock's that wasn't the other John's, first.
So he says, "I guess it is," and splays his hand over Sherlock's waist, and kisses him.
--
Sherlock doesn't usually stick around afterwards -- he tries the first time, but it becomes obvious after a few minutes that he's bored of laying still, and starts to fidget when John would like nothing more than to go to sleep.
"You won't hurt my feelings if you get up to do something else," John says finally, when Sherlock's fingertips begin to tap a rapid melody on his hip. "I know you have an experiment in the sink that you're working on."
The fingers still. "It's not a reflection on yourself, of course," Sherlock says, already slipping out of John's bed and picking up his clothes. John watches him dress. "I just get --"
"Bored. I know. It's fine. I don't mind."
But sometimes Sherlock does spend the night, curled tentatively around John's body. Those times, when the night grows still and peaceful, Sherlock will tell him things about their time together that John doesn't remember.
"You're the one who shot the cabbie, on our first case together," Sherlock will say, and John will nod against his shoulder, because he's guessed as much already. "Afterwards," Sherlock will continue, "we joked about how he'd been neither a nice man nor a good cabbie, and you told me we shouldn't giggle at crime scenes."
"Did I tell you that you were an idiot about the pills and make you watch the Princess Bride too?"
"Yes, actually."
"That's good," John will murmur, eyes closing. "It was the first thing I thought of when I read my blog entry again."
Another time, Sherlock will tell him, "There was a month, once, where you changed your computer password daily, but you weren't very creative with it. You started with Harry's name and your birthdate, but by the end of it, your passwords were all some variation of 'Piss off, Sherlock'. But with incorrect punctuation."
"No one punctuates their computer passwords," John will say into Sherlock's hair. "They're passwords."
"When you said that the last time, I changed your password to "Sherlock punctuates his passwords." Full stop and all."
"Git," John will reply with an affectionate chuckle, and tangle their fingers together.
Once, only once, Sherlock will say, "You don't do it anymore because you don't have the nightmares. But before, when night terrors woke you up, you would sometimes put your firearm on the table and stare at it. I don't know what you were thinking about when you did it, and I never asked."
And John will tighten his arms around Sherlock and not say anything in response.
--
Sherlock takes a case for Scotland Yard, next. Lestrade had never stopped texting Sherlock about the cases, but it is the first time since John's death that he's replied to one. When they arrive at the crime scene -- burglary that'd turned to murder, Lestrade gives him a long, strange look.
"John?" he asks cautiously, when John hangs back with him to let Sherlock examine the body.
John nods. "Mycroft told you, I assume?"
"Well," Lestrade says, "He says they put you in another body. I'm not sure I'd believe him, if not for Sherlock. He's... He's a lot better than he was after you died."
"Yeah, he is, isn't he?" Still not the same yet, but better. He's put on more of the weight he's lost, and spends less time being dreadfully, frighteningly quiet.
"I'm glad you're back." Lestrade bumps their shoulders together, and John knows this gesture -- has seen it before, from an outsider's perspective. "We should catch up. See how much you lost. Pub later?"
They've gone to the pub before, after cases, just the two of them, coming out hours later laughing and clasping arms. John doesn't know what they talked about (Sherlock, probably). "Sounds lovely."
Sherlock turns to call for him, and John watches his face fall momentarily as he stops, remembering, and then brighten, remembering again.
"John! Come here and look at this puncture mark!"
--
After an initial awkwardness where John doesn't know what to call the Detective Inspector ("Lestrade when I'm being a copper, and Greg if we're having a pint together"), they get on surprisingly well. Greg hadn't been as close to him as Sherlock had been, before his death, so John doesn't feel loss of his memories as keenly. Repairing what'd been between them feels less insurmountable.
He mentions as much, after his second beer.
"Everything's more complicated when it's about Sherlock Bloody Holmes," Greg agrees. "But I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. When Moriarty got you, it was pretty bad."
"What happened to me?" John asks. A morbid part of him wants to know. "It's not something they told me, and I don't want to ask Sherlock."
Greg's expression becomes troubled, and he fiddles with his glass before speaking. "He kidnapped and tortured you to death. I don't know the details, because Sherlock called his brother in first thing and got the case handed off to one of the special teams."
"What happened to Sherlock?"
"Worked himself to the bone looking for you, and after you died,worked twice as hard to hunt down Moriarty."
Sherlock had hunted down Moriarty, and killed him. Months ago, Mycroft had said. John nods. "And then what?"
"And then he disappeared into his flat and stayed there for months, driving us all half-mad with worry, until Mycroft brought you back."
John takes a deep drink from his beer. "And you?"
"I went to your funeral. And I'm bloody ecstatic to have you back, even if you're not quite the same. But I've had friends die, before, in the line of duty. I could cope. You were probably the only one, for Sherlock."
It's not a pleasant thought, that he may have been the only one who'd gotten that close to Sherlock. That John had died, and left him alone.
"Let's talk about something else," John declares. "The highlights of the last year. Any good films get released?"
Apparently, yes, so they talk about the latest films John needs to catch up on, then Greg shares some funny stories about Sherlock, both after he'd met John the first time and before, until he catches sight of his watch and realizes he's got work the next day.
Greg wraps him in a tight hug outside the pub. "It's great having you back, John," he says. "Give Sherlock my regards."
"It's good to be back."
--
"Don't you think one treatment a week is excessive?" John asks Mycroft, as he sits down in the chair-shaped machine. The black car had pulled up next to him only a week after his previous "treatment".
"Sherlock's started taking cases again, and considering how often he seems to find himself in mortal peril, I decided it'd be wise," Mycroft replies.
Topher makes a distressed sound. He's been at each of John's treatments so far, despite previously working at a Dollhouse in America, and seems to be the one in charge of handling John's imprint. John can't tell if that's Mycroft's doing, or if it's because he just makes an interesting case study. "Mortal peril? Dolls are expensive! The Active architecture is expensive! I thought we were imprinting a friend for your brother, not putting an untrained doll in combat situations. Let me give him some skills -- it's just one tweak of the imprint, and then John Watson, Doctor will become John Watson, Ninja."
"John?" Mycroft looks at him expectantly.
"Um. No thanks."
"Doctor Watson has military training. I'm sure he'll be fine."
--
Now that he has a proper identity again -- a permanent one, hopefully, John gets properly settled into a new job. Slowly, he begins to feel less awkward about being in a body that didn't originally belong to him, and Sherlock must be coming to terms with it as well, because John gets fewer and fewer glimpses of the grief that had covered Sherlock like a cloak before.
Eventually, Sherlock stops telling John about himself, and when John asks why he stopped, Sherlock says, "I can't think of anything I haven't already told you that you shouldn't already know."
"What about when Moriarty kidnapped me the second time?" John asks, because there are details he doesn't know, details he'll never know, and while he's okay with that, he wants to know everything else.
"He took you on the 17th of January," Sherlock begins, "and sent me an email to gloat."
John can identify the places where Sherlock glazes over the details -- places where I questioned an associate of Moriarty's really means I tortured a man for information, or they'd already moved you when I reached the location, but I was able to find a lead is just a nicer way of saying Moriarty's men were still there, so I hurt them.
Sherlock's voice breaks and his fingers clench tight around John's when he describes the proof of John's death -- his heart, carved out of him and sent to the flat, and the DNA checks returning positive, and he skips to the ending rather quickly after that. "I finally found him in a safe house in Spain, and then I killed him. Mycroft retrieved me as I was finishing, and I returned to London."
"How did Mycroft manage to track you down so quickly, before you could get away? I didn't think he had that kind of power, outside of Britain," John says.
"I love you," Sherlock replies, apparently to completely distract John from what he says next, which is, "And I'd been killing Moriarty for six days, by the time Mycroft found me. It would have been longer, but someone had found the bodies of his guards and reported them to the police."
It takes a conscious effort not to focus on the first part of Sherlock's response rather than the last, but he manages it. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what to say to that. What do you say when someone says to you, When you died, I went on a killing spree?
He finally settles for, "Just don't... Don't do anything like that again." He feels like he's been punched in the chest. "I don't want you to murder people for me."
"Not even if they deserve it?"
"No," John repeats firmly.
"Not even if I won't get caught or punished?"
"No." For a second, John's afraid Sherlock's going to ask why not?
But he doesn't. "I'll try."
--
When John wakes from a routine treatment, the first thing he hears is Topher's voice, saying, "-- this would happen. Can I make him a badass ninja now?"
He sits up. Sherlock is standing in the corner next to Mycroft, lips pursed. He hadn't been there when John had closed his eyes, and now that he's paying attention, he can tell that he's been placed in a new body. His hands are different.
"I died again, didn't I?" he says, and rubs his hands over his face. This is beginning to become a habit, one he'd rather not have. "What happened?"
"What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock asks.
"Stopping by after work for a treatment. Um... Mycroft asking about how the dog fighting case was going? Something went wrong on the case, I take it?"
"The dog fighting ring was a front for a drug trafficking organization. During the case, you jumped in front of a bullet for me and bled out before the police could arrive."
"Oh. How long's it been since...?"
"It's been two days since your death, and five since your last treatment," Mycroft says smoothly. "Once I heard what happened, I had another doll shipped in from the states for you. Sherlock, do try to take better care of your toys."
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters, but his eyes are focused on John.
--
They get only a couple feet into the hallway at home before Sherlock's crowding him up against a wall, running his hands up John's arms and cupping his chin, turning his head this way and that. After a minute or so, he ducks his head to bury his face in John's neck. "John. I -- I was worried for you."
"I'm sorry."
"I held you as you died. I knew Mycroft would be able to bring you back, but you suffered."
"Well, at least you got out of it okay," John says, and pushes Sherlock back just far enough to kiss him. Sherlock doesn't kiss him back. "Something wrong?"
Sherlock's frowning. "You don't feel -- your body isn't familiar to me. Even though the rest of you -- the way you hold yourself, your manner of speaking, your facial expressions, are all the same. Actually," he continues, voice changing as his thoughts distract him, "it's rather fascinating."
"I'm still the same person. Just think of me as the Doctor regenerating. Only without the personality changes."
"What? The what? Are you talking about a film?"
"TV series. I used to watch it as a kid, and then they made a remake of it while I was in Afghanistan. Still haven't got around to seeing the new ones, actually."
"Hmm," Sherlock says, and presses their mouths together. "You kiss the same way."
"The imprint only holds my muscle memory, not anyone else's," John says. "I'm still left-handed too."
"Yes, I know," Sherlock says, and kisses him again, as slow and exploratory as if it's their first time again.
--
"Sherlock?"
"Mhmm?"
"You didn't kill anyone this time, did you?"
"No. They're in police custody."
"Okay. Just checking."
--
John's new body is similar enough to his old one that they could have been related, and Mycroft offers to pull strings to get him his job at the hospital back without too many questions. He accepts, if only because he really, really doesn't want to have to go through the process of rebuilding his life again.
The second death's easier than his first -- mind, he doesn't remember either of them, but this time all he has to do is call Harry to let her know he's going to look different (again) when they meet up next, and send a text to Lestrade saying that he's back and fine, really.
This time, there's only a five-day gap where there's nothing, and it's as if John had only been asleep. He can handle that.
"Did anything important happen since my last treatment?" John asks as he looks through his email inbox and sent messages folder. There's no new post on his blog, but that's because they hadn't finished the case yet.
"Nothing in particular," Sherlock replies, and then, "Mr. Brink offered to give you martial arts training, but you refused. Why?"
"I don't know." It'd just seemed strange, the idea of having someone else's knowledge in his mind. Where would he end and they begin? But it'd be useful. "Would it bother you if I let them? Would it change who I am?"
"The technology is capable of installing skills without causing damage to the original personality."
"Do you think I should?"
Sherlock looks away. "I don't like to see you get hurt."
--
In the near future, John will allow the Dollhouse to give him more combat training, and it will save their lives when they get themselves into a bit of a scrape when chasing a case that brings them head to head with some of the Met's crooked coppers.
John will laugh, a little hysterically, staring at his hands like he's never seen them before even though he's been in the same body for more than a year now, and he will say, "Well, I guess that turned out useful, didn't it?"
Sherlock will smother a giggle, and squeeze John's hand, and say against John's face, "Good. I wasn't looking forward to having to pick out another body for you. You know how I hate shopping."
Afterwards, Mycroft will visit with a proposal and Sherlock will sigh and pluck discordant notes from the strings of his violin and John will say, "Are you sure that's a good idea?", and "Is that safe?" It will lead to a set of Active architecture installed in the back of Sherlock's neck and embedded in his brain.
Dangerous, perhaps, but not as dangerous as it could be, because this architecture is different from the set in John's body and in the other dolls. This one is special, is sanctioned by the government, protected and kept secret and guarded zealously. By Sherlock's older brother, and if there's one thing about Mycroft that John trusts, it's that Mycroft will do anything in his power to protect Sherlock from harm.
Mycroft wields a not inconsiderable amount of power.
But there are limits to what they can be taught, and eventually, after some years have passed, all the extra training and knowledge the Dollhouse provides them will not be enough to save them, because ultimately, they are only human.
This is how it will end:
John will wake up, and he won't know what day it is, or how long he's been gone. He will open his eyes and be disoriented, and he will see Mycroft, older now, standing at his side. He will look at his hands, and stretch, and feel youth in his body that he hasn't felt in years.
And he will hear a noise, and he will turn around, and there will be someone else -- a tall, dark-haired man who is just as young as John's new body is, sitting up and rubbing his face. And there will be a moment, where John's confused, because while he's never seen this man before in his life, John knows who he is, deep in his chest, because it's Sherlock and Sherlock is as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror isn't.
"Sherlock?" John will ask. "Is that you?"
"John," Sherlock will reply, looking first down at himself, then at John. "I take it our latest case ended unfortunately. Did we find the murderers?"
"You were able to confirm their identity. The case is solved," Mycroft informs them. "But the warehouse you tracked him to was a trap, and you were both killed in the subsequent explosion."
At that, Sherlock will look at Mycroft, his eyes gone intent and focused, and he will say to his brother, "How much did you orchestrate, making it so that even on our deaths, you could bring us back? On my death."
"Not as much as you're thinking, dear brother," Mycroft will say. "But the technology has such interesting potential, don't you agree? It's made so many promising advances in the past few years, and now there's precedent."
John may not be as smart as the Holmes brothers, but he's no imbecile, and he will have no trouble connecting the dots, taking people who are invaluable and those who are expendable, and adding them together to reach the inevitable conclusion.
"Is that why you did it?" Sherlock will ask. "So there's a precedent when you grow even older and fatter than you already are?"
"I did it because you're family," Mycroft will respond more curtly, lips tilting downwards in displeasure. "Unlike you, I don't put myself in mortal peril every other week. It may prove useful in the future, but my primary concern for the present was you. Besides, you really should keep yourself more up-to-date with the latest breakthroughs in human cloning. It's a fascinating subject, one I hope will prove relevant within the next couple decades."
On their way home, Sherlock will nudge John with his shoulder. When John looks at him, Sherlock will say, "Mrs. Hudson already knows about us, as do Lestrade and your sister. We can continue our lives as they were before."
"Yeah, that sounds good." John will reply. "Have any other good cases on?"
"I might," Sherlock will answer and later they will go to solve a crime, as they always do, wearing new bodies but with everything else the same.
This is how it will end.
Or maybe, this is how it will really begin.