Chapter summary: John lives in a bubble. At least he lives.
Despite the supposedly superior learning capacities that Moran has endowed him, John has not come to comprehend the enormous amount of gratification generated by the simple act of holding hands. Maybe it has to do with Sherlock's graceful long fingers that fit surprisingly well in his own considerably smaller palm. Any other public display of affection would be redundant, when a gentle squeeze shoots up more endorphin to his brain than all the rewards from the M-Lab combined. That's probably why Sherlock doesn't wear his gloves anymore.
Scotland Yard, on the other hand, is not a bit blown away by the sudden development. As they walk in, Lestrade even gives Sherlock a little pat on the back. Is that a wink? John frowns slightly, though he doesn't really mind. Whatever it is, Sherlock acknowledges it with a half-grin, before turning to grimmer matters.
"Yes, you're hearing me say it, I've made a mistake. The last series of murders needs to be reworked, all of it."
"What series?" Lestrade scratches his grey hair. He already hears the universal groan of dismay across the Department.
The renewed investigation has involved more interviewing and questioning than running around, but John is disproportionately exhausted at the end of the day. Even back in the comfy surroundings of their flat he cannot un-see the animal-pen of a cell that's holding Sarah~074 in custody – no, animals enjoy more rights in this time and age. Unlike the two Citizens under conviction, there will be no defence or appeal procedure for a clone. In fact, termination may have been carried out already, were it not for the sluggish administration, and Sherlock's swift intervention. Ah, the rightful fate of your lot, echoes the familiar voice of Professor Moriarty. John shudders.
"We'll get her out." Sherlock says calmly.
"Yeah, we should." John nods with a stronger resolution than his confidence in the time it would take, or the helpfulness of his own presence. "It was… hot in there."
"I thought it was hot when you ripped your shirt off the other day."
Amused by the abrupt change of subject, John turns his head. "Really, should've done it sooner then."
"Yes you should have, idiot."
John responds by pinning Sherlock to the wall, a hand on his collar. "Fine, try keep talking like that, I'll stop you."
Before their lips could meet, the tapping on the door announces its urgency. An umbrella. Sherlock growls, as John straightens his shirt and whispers to his ear, "later."
Mycroft withholds a sigh when he meets the eyes of his younger brother, the giddiness of infatuation all too prominent. Not an advantage. He turns to inspect the more collected flatmate, the full body scan of whom he has scrutinised since day one. Fortunate enough for a fabricant, the physical functions of John~001 were merely enhanced, not mutilated, save only for the controlling insertions. To find consolation in the design of the M-Lab is alarming, in itself.
"Sugar?" Said fabricant is now playing host. Mycroft takes the tea, smiling somewhat bitterly.
"Thank you, John. In fact, the very purpose of my visit today is to present you the updated information about the s-field."
Sherlock sits up a little more tightly. "Do go on," he huffs.
"Please be reminded of the time I spoke of unspecified risk, when I initiated its employment." Mycroft glances at John, whose unease is mostly caused by Sherlock's concern instead of his words. "Now, at my request the physiological effect of its signal has been studied most extensively. It is revealed that the most vulnerable organ to the radiation is indeed the brain, as previously believed; moreover, the potential for damage increases exponentially with the level of brain activity."
John shifts instantly, almost jolting to the other corner of the flat opposite of where Sherlock is seated. The sleek little gadget in his pocket, a life-saver, now burns against his skin. He has not sussed out what the assessment means exactly, but it sounds a bit not good. He sees his suspicion confirmed by Sherlock sinking into the chair, his face grave.
"In simpler terms, the signal does little harm to the stupid or idle, but a high-functioning busy mind in its range has much to fear." The corner of Mycroft's mouth quirks as he fixes his eyes on John again. "In the absence of the following information you have demonstrated rather adequate instincts, John: that in compensation, the power of the signal decreases also exponentially with distance. Given the setting of your particular device, the area outside of a 0.5m radius would be safe enough. An arm's length, actually. Please do come closer; but not too close."
John does not move. He would move out of the Solar System if he could.
"Give me the numbers," Sherlock leans forward, his fingers clenching at the textile of the chair. "How good is your research anyway?"
"At a high confidence level, with repeated experiments. You know whom to ask for the full report if you care to check." Mycroft's chest falls with a long exhale, a tinge of regret in his voice. "The peril of the signal lies in its intensity required to serve as a shield. While the effect of previous sporadic exposure may be negligible, to have it on 24/7 is surely a different matter. Security comes at a price, Sherlock, as with everything else. Be glad that the price is no greater than keeping a… polite distance."
John looks to Sherlock, who is looking at him likewise, with an unspoken desperation in his eyes. The shield that keeps his petty life is materialising around him, trapping him in a bubble of untouchability. Like an animal-pen.
Ah, the rightful fate of your lot.
"Fix it, Mycroft, I ask of you." Sherlock pushes up from the armchair, his demand composed and icy overhead of his brother. "This is the best your people can come up with?"
Mycroft does not look up. "Oh yes, far from satisfactory, isn't it? Woe is me that some of our most promising talents have deviated from research."
When there is no response other than Sherlock's roll of eyes, Mycroft drains his tea and recollects his umbrella. John's eyes trail after his footsteps, the tension in the room departing with him. Without a further thought, he is rushing after the Government.
"Stay away," John warns, before Sherlock could follow.
"I am stopping at an arm's length, Mr. Holmes, don't be alarmed." Outside of the apartment, John calls out from still a few steps away.
"I fully expect you to." Mycroft turns around. John knows he waited.
From the very polite distance, John stretches out his steady palm, where the s-field generator is nested. The little blue light that emits Salvation is beaming sinisterly. "Could you, erm, turn it down a little bit?"
"Has Moran not installed Signal Processing 101 in you?" John grimaces at the name. "To turn down the interference signal is to increase your exposure – to immediate death. Sherlock will not have it. I regret to admit that it will upset him greatly, should you expire at this point." Mycroft's gaze is slightly unsettling, as if trying to find what his brother has found in this fabricant. "The attachment is a choice of his own, and I concede."
John stares back. A shadow of sadness rests on the brows of the man that's supposed to be unmoved. "In simpler terms, you could have just gotten rid of me for your peace of mind, but you chose not to."
"Why, yes, John, the level of your brain activity exceeds my expectation." Mycroft strokes his chin appreciatively. "I hope the benefit of the signal still outweighs the possible harm to your own person."
"It's not like I get to choose." John chuckles, pocketing the indispensable metallic patch. "But - thank you, I mean it."
However wretched this existence is, it's worth it. For the case, John. There are more lives at stake than his own.
Only if he can truly stay out of Sherlock's reach.
Mycroft's lips tighten briefly before he gets into the jet-car. John takes it as a smile.
A melancholy air hangs over the M-Lab, as Moriarty paces back and forth in front of five gigantic blacked-out monitors. A very long report scrolls itself silently on his own screen.
"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." He mutters. "What have I done, what have I done."
"An assessment by the Government is not always a reliable -" Moran interjects.
"But what do we say about taking chances with our only hope?" Moriarty snaps. "Seb, mark this day as the day James Moriarty steps down to negotiate with his product."
Moran bites his lips, and doesn't say anything.
"For you, Sherlock, for you."