Summary: Waking up three hundred years later is disheartening for anyone, even androids. Finding himself in an unrecognizable land after his memories were wiped from his system, John struggles to remember his past about how he came to be, and why the local mechanist is so familiar… Android!AU
Warnings: Mild Violence, minor character death(sort of), sensual situations. Very, very, mild dubcon depending on interpretation.
Author's Note: In celebration of the end of the world, have an end-of-the-world AU! A oneshot that I've been playing with for a while. There will be new chapters for my other story, Erasure, soon, I swear.
J-085
"Prototype J-085, wake up." He had awoken to the washed white of a lab, a blinding light and the outline of his maker. J-085 blinked and breathed, artificial respiration system coming to life at his maker's commands. "Sit up." He did, the hard table beneath him shuddering at his sudden movements. "Left your right arm and make a fist." He did, the individual wires and gears obeying the command and false tendons flexing as he belled his fingers.
"What is your purpose, J-085?"
"To live as a human, among humans, and serve them as my maker intends." The words were automatic, programed on his tongue.
"And what purposes can you serve?"
"I am programmed with the most advanced medical knowledge and procedures, along with elite soldier capabilities. I can be a servant, or a sexual relief. My learning capabilities can give me any purpose that my maker deems acceptable."
"Very good."
They had found him on the side of the road. At least, that's what Lestrade told him, that his patrol had been farther off the beaten path than usual and a recently uncovered well from the latest dust storm had drawn their attention. John couldn't remember anything until his system had been booted, sensors in his eyes re-awakening for the first time in no one knew how long to show him this odd place.
What he had noticed first was that it was hot. Dusty. Dry. In the random sparks firing off in his central unit, he could sometimes recall the lush grass and the easy sun overhead, but when that faded and he found himself back in the now, stale air and stagnant yellow light muted from a cloth window to his left.
The second thing John had found was the small cramped, cluttered home, the table beneath him groaning under his weight as he shifted and a cloth gliding to the floor near his feet. He had sat up, sending dust motes into the yellow air, his joints squeaking from lack of use and his head whirring as it gathered the new information, storing it neatly away for later access. At that moment, he had only been concerned about where he was.
The third thing that he happened up was the mechanist when John had heard shuffling outside the makeshift walls and he had all but nearly killed the man. There had been some scuffling, and the mechanist had calmed John from his hurried demanding questions of 'what was going on' and 'what the hell was this place'. Though calmed isn't quite the best phrase, and John could still feel the residual burn of the mechanist's shocking tool.
"What the hell was that for?" He had asked quite loudly, the static making his synthetic skin twitch and alerts ping in his head even if the minor shock did less than .25 of a percent of damage.
"You were glitching. I assume that's the term. I only have a few texts to go off of, though Lestrade brought you to me for good reason. I can assure you he knew it was because I'm more than capable with all manners of machinery. Wouldn't surprise me if it was to keep me out of his hair more than that, but I can't pass up a little project of my own." He passed John into the cluttered room, going to a bench laden with tool and bit of scrap metal in no real semblance of order, at least to him.
"Right. Where am I exactly?" It seemed like a good question, if they were going to be civil.
"New Lon. Old Lon is ten miles away. The village is named after it. Not the most creative group of settlers, but they managed to survive for a whole generation now."
"Okay...What, ah...what year is it?"
"307 N.E. Pass me the hammer on the table." Just like that, John had fitted himself into a new mold, grabbing the tool and handing it to the mechanist. He was ignored for a while after that, but it didn't take much time to realize that was just how this life would be.
Settling in wasn't as difficult as the villagers made it out to be. Mrs. Hudson, the older woman who came by every few days to check on Sherlock asked him constantly how he was 'settling in' to the new world. He said just fine, though he doubted that she would take the actual answer as anything but bunk. He was built to adapt. To stay with humanity and to aide them, wherever that led him. He even started helping out with the few small injuries and illnesses around the village as Sherlock enjoyed shooing out with his bored silences and noxious experiments.
At first, they stared at him, as though a mystery, the metal man walking among them but when he fixed a small girl's broken wrist, the stares began to wane. He felt like he had purpose again, bandaging the farmer's cut and instructing the parent how to go about her infant son's mild cold. It was the few precious parts of his memory not tainted by time or rust or whatever it was that erased the data.
Two and a half weeks after waking up, Sherlock suggested that he could move out of his hut, as one in the village had been abandoned for some time, and the villagers would be more than happy to set up a doctor. John considered it, he really did. He visited the hut, went inside to see the dust, the emptiness. He calculated being there, alone each night with just him and maybe a cot or a chair to recharge in. It'd be quiet. He could take up a hobby or two with all of this space, with just him and this home. It might be nice.
That night after his last patient, he returned to Sherlock's hut, handed the mechanist a wrench when asked, and sat in his chair to listen to noises of work. Sherlock didn't suggest it again and John didn't think of it anymore.
Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, took a particular interest in him when he visited three weeks after John had awoken. He had some sort of leadership position in the village, on the committee or something. Sherlock didn't actually know himself, only that Mycroft had made himself indispensable to the rest of the residents.
"I don't remember anything." John answered sincerely when he had been asked about the before world. Mycroft seemed eager for the knowledge, for anything that might help this desolate life. "I remember a few bits and pieces, but no details. Just words or odd moments." Mycroft had sighed at his words, straightening.
"Do let me know if anything pops up, John." He requested, leaving soon after. Sherlock followed his leaving with a rant about his 'overweight' brother and plucking annoyingly at his decrepit violin. When asked where he even acquired such a thing, he said he found it in one of the vaults scattered around, locked away in dirty room.
"I taught myself how to play." He said casually, proudly, seeking attention. John gave it to him, though he didn't know if it was the playing or the instrument that was the cause of the irritating noise. He knew somewhere in his memory banks that the violin usually sounded better than that.
Sherlock hardly needed him most days, unless he counted the passing of random items and having someone to endlessly talk to when he felt it necessary. John didn't mind. He was programmed not too and Sherlock's mannerisms seemed so normal, as though they'd been ingrained into his memory banks. The mechanist kept to his odd experiments and research through battered tomes and John kept himself occupied with the village. Though the hut was cramped, they seemed to fit in it well. Sherlock slept, rarely, on a small cot in the corner which was often covered in scraps of metal and tools and John recharged each night in his chair by the door.
There were times that Sherlock demanded his presence, ignoring his other duties to specifically examine John's inner workings. They would spend hours just outside the hut, Sherlock tapping and observing the mechanisms under his skin. He seemed fascinated by all that John was and had been created to be, exploring his limitations and anatomy with a flattering interest.
"Exactly the same." Sherlock murmured, pulling John's wrist back to the farthest point. It didn't hurt, and the steel of his bones wouldn't snap, no matter what force Sherlock used. "A precise replica of a normal human. But why?"
"I was designed to be as human as possible. To blend in. The people wanted a servant who appeared human, but still acted as a robot." John said, flexing his fingers where Sherlock touched them. The man grunted in response, engrossed in the back of John's hand and how the tendons moved with his digits.
"Prototype J-085, a.k.a. John, was designed as the latest model in android development. He is, for all intents and purposes, a normal man. He will move like one. Breath like one. Eat and sweat and bleed like one. You will only be able to tell that he is a mechanism when the one he is owned by, i.e. his maker, orders him otherwise. J-085 is the perfect servant, doing exactly as his master commands, and learning from his mistakes to a point so that he will be perfect in his orders."
It was a conference, his maker standing at the podium giving his bored yet charismatic speech while John stood off to the side, awaiting his next command.
"He will please you. He will never act outside an order. It is all he is programmed to do." Sherlock turned to him, and they went through their routine, making John perform small stunts to impress the companies and scientists with the conference hall. They 'ooohed' and 'aaaahed', clapping where appropriate. The questions they asked were predictable. Cost, potential threat, and how long till more will be in production.
"J-085 is a prototype, and until I personally work out the any kinks or bumps, it will not be for sale." The meeting ended with more applause than necessary, the whole ordeal draining John of his energy. Afterwards, when they were taking the cab home, stuck in traffic as another riot broke out upon the streets with protestors scrapping with supporters. "Idiots." His maker breathed, staring out the window.
John remained silent, not having been told to respond. "You did well, John." It was that phrase that sparked a strum of pleasant vibrations through him. What he lived for.
The memory had hit him quite suddenly, foggy and sand-like, running through his attempts to grasp it. He came back to Sherlock working his way steadily up his arm, testing the brachial artery.
"Did you remember something?" He asked, not looking at John's face. Of course, the man caught just about everything.
"Yes." Was his automatic reply. He tried to remember the faces, the people. There had been many, yet all they appeared like were blurs, faceless background noise. Even his maker remained anonymous, which, out of everything, disturbed him the most.
Even now he did as told. Sherlock had been the one to tell him to find something to do in the village, had been the one to command him to stay put for the day to examine his body. Most nights, it was Sherlock who told him to sleep and recharge, even to eat or drink if he wanted to observe that. All for that pleasant feeling programmed into him every time Sherlock praised his system. He'd just switched owners was all.
Two months into his new life and things began to become routine, even the most random events. Sherlock was still a mechanist, still needed to fix the machines of the village. He was too curious and stubborn for his own good and John felt obligated to come along when the insane man had begun prepping to travel to Lon to resupply his 'dwindling' amount of parts and scraps, despite the large amount of junk behind their…Sherlock's hut.
"I have to go to visit my brother, the insufferable git. Stay here."
"I should come with."
"What?"
"It's dangerous. You shouldn't go alone with the riots and vandals out there."
"Getting a little bold, are we?" His maker noted with a a frown. For the first time since awakening, John feared.
"No, I-" He tried. How could he explain a disobedience? Speaking out against his maker? Thinking on his own?
"If you must come along, then do so. I haven't got all day." His maker swept from the room, and John followed. He'd keep quiet from now on.
"I'm coming with." John had said. Sherlock had just looked at him profoundly.
"So you are." He had finally muttered, giving John one last penetrating glance before continuing with his packing.
They left the next morning, early before the sun had arisen completely and the farmers were just getting to their rounds. They ignored Sherlock, his expertise necessary but his personality notwithstanding, but John received waves and a few friendly 'hello, dear' from the women. He had, when in the village checking on his patients, heard some of the residents call Sherlock a 'machine', a 'freak'. John himself was often called a kind man. He wondered if the proper term was irony as they continued on their way along the stamped out path, the bull they'd borrowed from one farmer clopping along beside them with the cart affixed to its reigns.
It was a ten mile walk, past nothing but cracked land and endless dead trees, burnt into charcoal and long since forgotten. Sherlock paid it no mind, talking most of the way about his latest experiment on the differences between the soil in the ruins and the village. John half listened, always aware of the landscape around them, an old rifle Lestrade had lent him for the trip strapped to his back.
Lon had been, for the most part, an intimidating feature upon the horizon. The bare bones of what was once teeming with life standing as an ever-present reminder of havoc and devastation. How had humanity come to this, with so few numbers, their small gatherings miles from each other?
Up close, Lon wasn't any less foreboding. There was a constant feeling of being watched, not just by the dog-sized rodents running to and fro, but something else, far more intelligent lurking just in the shadows of the ruins. John kept his rifle in hand, scanning as they passed through the buildings with sinister faces against an orange sky, their glass windows having fallen out long ago. In some places, the buildings had toppled over, or collapsed in on themselves to create a nigh impassable pile of rubble. Some still stood, old guardians of a now dead city.
"What was this place?" John asked, staring out over the lonely horizon, the crumbling structures obstructing his view. They were in one such still standing structure, colored glass upon the floor, rotten wood shaped in benches placed haphazardly about them. Next to him, Sherlock pulled out a broken metal cross before tossing it easily over his shoulder with disinterest.
"It's nothing now. Doesn't matter." He pushed away a slab of wood stuck with age old glass to reveal a hard cement floor long since cracked. "Just another forgotten building." They moved on soon, Sherlock's eyes quick and attuned to exactly what he needed.
The two had been wandering along with the cart squeaking behind them and the bull grunting and panting when the owner of the watching eyes had come out. Sherlock had stopped John, a hand on his chest and a finger to his lips while he nodded to a ruin just to their left. A pause with just the empty breeze whistling through the streets and John began to raise the rifle when the most haunting screech filled the air, his insides going haywire from the shrillness of it.
Like a rat, it scurried out of its hiding place on all fours, man shaped yet too rotten to be anything but a monster and John had fired before it could even come within striking distance. It crumpled without a fight, dead upon the ground. Proudly, John looked to Sherlock, smiling, but the praise he'd been hoping for was absent, replaced by a severe disapproving sneer. The eight other screams that came next gave him his answer as to why.
"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John called out, stumbling over a rock as he searched high and low for the mechanist, dust and rubble pervading the air. They had gotten separated, the last of the things setting the bull off in a panic, sending Sherlock whipping after it while John shot the thing dead. His system flashed angrily at him, 75% intact, most of the damage to his left leg where one had taken a swipe at him. As luck would have it, he slipped on some gravel, his bad leg giving way, and he began sliding down a hill, toppling over himself and coming to rest near the bottom.
73% intact now, dammit. He scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off and peering into the waning light of the afternoon. A twitch caught his eye in an alcove, and he whipped round, glaring into the shade.
"Sherlock? That you?" John approached, jumping back when a rat the size of his torso came flying out, squeaking and scampering off into the city. He watched it go with some disdain, sensors calming at the sight. It was here he missed the world he didn't remember, because what he could recall had been absent of bloody big rats and human monstrosities.
But there was Sherlock, still missing in a rat and psychopath infested world and John absolutely needed to find him alive before he found his corpse splayed out in the hot sun. Granted, Sherlock did have a pistol on him, which he only decided to pull out once John taken down three of the things, but John would only feel at ease once they were reunited and heading back to the village.
Before he could climb back up the slope, however, a glint caught his eye. He walked towards it, intrigued, having to brush away rubble to properly unveil it. What was found was a hatch, large and metallic, opened ever so slightly. Glancing around, John didn't see any evidence of switches or human life, and he checked underneath to see a hole leading straight into the earth. He should've ignored it, to be honest, but who knew what could be down there. Something Sherlock might need, maybe.
Curiously, and only slightly pissed at Sherlock for bounding off like a maniac, he wormed his way into the dark crevice, taking the ladder carefully into the din.
"What are they doing?" It had come out of his mouth without permission, this curiosity that had sprung upon him suddenly. His maker didn't seem to mind the change anymore.
"Preparing. Some say it's the end of the world." The people hard at work stacking sand bags in from of their homes and carrying in mounds of canned food paid them no mind.
"But you don't think so."
"Oh no, I know it is. I just want to watch it happen."
He came back to himself as his eyes adjusted properly to the low light and he alighted upon the cold floor, noting a door directly in front of him. A smell permeated from it as he turned the knob, hitting him with a force that would've felled a person. Death, decay, long since rotted, sourced by a near clean skeleton on the floor that had turned brown with age. The room was littered with cans of preserved food and assorted boxes that whirred quietly of their own accord.
One container caught his attention, its shape and size close to Sherlock's own violin. Carefully stepping over the mouse skulls and heavy dust, he picked it up. The weight was more significant than what he'd first thought but nothing too much for him. Curved and sleek, made of some sort of plastic as far as he could tell in the darkness, he tried to open it, finding the lock well in place. With one last look around the room and a parting nod to the human remains, he quickly made his way to the surface.
"John?" He heard the familiar voice as he climbed back through the hole.
"Here!" He yelled, forgetting about opening the case in favor of bolting towards Sherlock and the cart. "Where the hell did you go?" He asked when he finally caught up.
"After the cart. It isn't my problem if you can't keep up."
"I was a little busy with that…thing or whatever, which if you hadn't noticed, the city is infested with them."
"They never come back out if you rid of the scouting party. The rotties aren't completely stupid."
"Oh, my apologies for not knowing how the hell they act!" They were heading back out now, Sherlock having picked up a few more scrap while John was scraping around in the hole in the ground. Speaking of which…
"What have you got there?" Sherlock demanded, pointing to the case still gripped in John's hand. Before he could even answer, it was ripped from him, Sherlock immediately turning it about before locating the lock and stopping completely. "Where did you find it?"
"Why don't you tell me?" John snapped, making an effort to pause the bull as well who blinked at him wearily. Poor thing. Hopefully the farmers took better care him than Sherlock did.
"Dusty, though no signs of irradiation or weather damage. A vault perhaps, but why you hardly had the time to explore one and there aren't any that I've found in Lon anyways, so a bunker, perhaps."
"It was open and I thought I might find something useful down there." John said with a shrug. Sherlock stares at him as though John is the real enigma, a smile tugging at his lips. If John could blush, he would be at the pleasant spark that crossed his wires from the silent appraisal.
"Why did you bring me this?"
"I thought you would want it."
"I didn't give you any order for it."
"You always play when you're in this kind of mood." He had reasoned. His maker had looked at him, a soft expression on his face that was worth more than all the words in the world.
"Come along, John! The lock is rusted and my tools are back at the hut!" John hadn't realized he'd frozen till the memory subsided, Sherlock and the cart already a few meters down the road.
Right.
On the way back, Sherlock told him he wasn't a very good android. John pointed out Sherlock wasn't the greatest human. They agreed it seemed to work, laughing much of the way home.
They left the bull back with the farmer and by the time they made it to the hut, Sherlock was vibrating with impatience. John didn't care, still trying to analyze onto his most recent memory as it faded rapidly, his maker still remaining faceless and out of reach. Sherlock pressed them inside, immediately ignoring John again to work on the case.
John stood beside him, waiting for Sherlock to need him, but all there was were the sounds of frustrated work, Sherlock furiously going at the old lock. It took an the better part of an hour, John just peering over his shoulder and watching curiously, before the case opened, the sound of decompressed air flowing and a seal snapping. There was a triumphant sound cut short with a gasp.
"What is it?" John asked, straining to see. Sherlock lifted it from the container, a violin preserved in the vacuum of the case for three hundred years, forgotten in a bunker. Intact, still shining as if recently polished, the instrument gleamed in Sherlock's pale fingers, who gripped it gently in awe. He immediately went to tune it, plucking the strings, the vibrating answer humming sweetly in the room, and John was pleased. With himself, and with Sherlock, who was more than enamored with the gift in his hands. He didn't need a praise this time, only the knowledge that he had done something right.
It was quite suddenly, he was being kissed, awkwardly, the violin pressed against his side and a hand gripped too rough on his chin. It was familiar. Why was it familiar? He'd never kissed this man, or anyone, had he? He could feel it, a memory drudging itself up of more passion and dry lips like these, but it was washed away when Sherlock pressed closer, and John returned it timidly. There was that pleasant spark, stronger this time than any other, but why?
Sherlock drew away, eyes wide in realizing what had happened. He stepped away, stammering a sorry and walking out, violin in hand. John slumped into his chair, dazed, his system whirring and telling him conflicting responses. It had felt good, but why? He wasn't programmed to gain pleasure in anything but appraisal. Was this a form of it? Sherlock had been ecstatic in what John had brought him and had kissed him in response. It should be simple. He shouldn't be confused, but the familiarity of it, the way his wires screamed at him that he'd done this before…
Outside, he could hear the first wailing sounds of Sherlock on his new instrument, the sound clearly better than his old one. John listened in a resigned way, as that sound was familiar too.
"I won't take advantage of you, John."
"That's not how it is!"
"I programmed you to want what I want! I made you this way."
"It's what I want, for God's sake! Can't you see?"
"You don't know. How could you?"
He opened his eyes to the rest of the world, noting it was morning and Sherlock was absent with an empty pang. How could he feel so lost and sullen? Was he supposed to? The day turned out to be a blur, lost in his own system as he automatically went through his routines in the village. Fix her back. Check his hearing. Listen to them cough. He never had to think with these things, his coding taking over and doing them without any more effort than blinking.
Sherlock didn't return till later that evening, covered in grease and in a foul mood, and went about it as though nothing of interest had happened. That was fine. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. He didn't have the knowledge in this category, and he didn't need to pursue it if Sherlock didn't want him too.
Another month passed, though differently. Sherlock stopped examining him, even though before they went to Lon, he had been eager to search his feet. In fact, most of the warmth he'd regarded John with from was gone, their interactions resigned. Despite that, Sherlock touched him more, subtly, in ways he didn't think Sherlock even noticed. Their hands brushed frequently when John handed him things. When Sherlock passed, he now made a point to touch his side or his back. There was even a morning where John came to from recharging, and Sherlock was kneeling before him, close enough that John assumed he going to be kissed again.
When asked about it, Sherlock stood and waved him off, saying it was nothing and 'don't you have patients to attend to?'. Even this, John let go.
"Take off your shirt." John had been examining a strange little device the bench, pushing its little arms about while trying to figure out what it was supposed to do when Sherlock had burst in, his demand ringing in John's ears. He paused, making sure he had heard him correctly.
"What?" He asked, his artificial heart beginning to pump wildly as Sherlock pushed past him to grab a few tools.
"Sit on the cot and take off your shirt. I want to test something." Oh. John nodded, acutely remembering he was an android and Sherlock had a vested interest in his mechanisms, even if he hadn't shown any interest in five weeks. What had he been expecting?
When he was seated, his top lying crumpled on the floor, Sherlock stood in front of him, contemplating the position, twirling a small hammer in hand. The air was warm, his now naked chest comfortable, heating up as Sherlock stared at him intensely, eyes roaming over him.
"Move back, against the wall." Was his instruction, put out in a quiet, low rumble. John had to swallow, mouth suddenly dry as he did what was told. His back came in contact with the wood of the wall, scratching his skin, though he could hardly notice. Sherlock climbed onto the bed with him, John's respiration jumping critically at the sight. There should be warnings, commands in his wires to do something, but he could only sit dumbly as Sherlock came to rest in front of him, all but straddling his thighs.
"Sher-?" He quieted himself, fingers brushing against his neck, pressing against his pulse there. Sherlock had done this before, had taken his heart rate and blood pressure several times, marveling at the life-like qualities of it. This was fine. This was normal. The fingers curling so Sherlock's knuckles brushed across his Adam's apple and down the line of his throat were rapidly approaching not.
Sherlock stare was intense, driven, focused as he continued, eyes dark with something John couldn't read. He tried not to catch his gaze when Sherlock touched his collarbone, tried not too gasp when a nail caught his nipple. This seemed breakable, the touch so delicate; it was an illusion that would collapse in on itself like the buildings of Lon if he dared to move or breath. He hadn't felt this before, he was sure, the parts of his skin lighting up at the caress, parts of him stirring that hadn't before.
Was this nervousness, the knot in his stomach, and the urge to flee fighting the need to stay? He could only wonder as Sherlock continued, quiet himself though John could hear his breath picking up as his thumb circle the bellybutton that served no purpose, fingers tickle a line of synthetic hair leading down into his trousers. John's hand began to shake from the effort to stay still, closing his eyes when Sherlock finally, finally looked at his face.
"Look at me." John did as he was told, Sherlock closer still, his fingers toying above John's waistline. "Can I?"
"Yes." It was enough for him, for both of them, and they were kissing again, sheepish and timid. It became an amalgamation of sensation, blue firing behind his eyes with each spark of pleasure as the gentle touches turned into desperate need. Clothes were lost somewhere on the floor, and Sherlock maneuvered them so John was on his back, arching into his touch when long fingers gripped him tightly.
John gave back as much as he could, kissing his neck and coaxing needy sounds out of him as he rubbed his cock. Surely this wasn't a predetermined coding within him, to touch and feel, to be as invested in his own pleasure as he was in Sherlock's, begging for more, faster as the heat within his coiled to a point he swore he was going to shut down from it. This was primal, instinctual, not data, but he couldn't dwell on it as Sherlock pressed them together, murmuring in his ear that he was perfect and pressing their mouths together again before John was lost to it all.
Everything whited out, an indescribable release gripping him before he was falling, falling away from the hut and the village and everything.
The world shuddered and rocked around them, blasts from all side accompanied by a symphony of gunshots and answering cries. John dragged his maker along, the man bleeding from his stomach furiously, and his choked gasps sounding wetly in John's ear. He was aiming for the tents, the safety zone from most of the battle but another missile going off tripped him down a divot in the earth, sending him and his maker plunging into the ground. It was a deep well, and before he could begin to carry them out, a tank landed atop the opening, trapping them both below any form of help.
"Shit shit shit!" John yelled after propping his maker against the stone wall, grabbing his own hair and searching for something, anything, to help.
"John…" He was by his maker's side swiftly, touching his sharp face and pale neck as gently, those damp dark curls were plastered to his maker's forehead with a cool sweat, and the usual bright eyes were dim and half-lidded as he fought to stay awake. He was dying, bleeding out and there was nothing John could do for him this time.
"I'll get us out of here. Just hold on, please." John begged, lying despite the reality. He couldn't live without his maker. He knew he couldn't.
"I-it's fine, John. It'll be f-fine." His maker promised, voice trembling while smiling, pressing the shaking hand that wasn't covering the bullet wound in his stomach to John's cheek "Just stay here. Just…" His teeth clenched shut, wracked with pain.
"I was supposed to keep you safe. I couldn't even do that!" He yelled, voice echoing in the well. "I failed you."
"You were p-perfect. I made a servant an-and found a friend instead. You were everything, John. You could never... never fail me." John's vision blurred, and he pressed his maker's hand to his flesh. His face felt wet for the first time in his life, and he saw little droplets fall onto his maker's neck. A thumb brushed away some of the tears. "I never programmed that."
"Maybe you're just a shit programmer." John huffed thickly, and they laughed together one last time before his maker dissolved into a coughing fit, this time producing up blood. "I can't live here without you." He confessed, words almost not coming out.
"You wo-won't have too. Lay down, John." John obeyed automatically, wrapping himself around his maker while he gave his last shuddering breaths. "P-prototype J-085, sleep." His systems began to shut down, and the last thing he heard for three hundred years was his maker telling him goodbye.
"John!" He was brought back to a near hysterical Holmes, holding him and searching his face. John stared at him for a moment, unblinkingly, systems connecting wires that didn't make sense. His maker had a face, a pale face with sharp features attached to a slim body, the same that was crouching before him. "What did you remember?"
John didn't say, couldn't say, his eyes growing bleary again of their own accord and he grabbed Sherlock, pulling him into an embrace. Sherlock silently returned it, unquestioningly for once, and it was what he needed.
"There was a war." John began to tell Mycroft the next day, Sherlock sitting off to the side with his violin in hand. "Most of the countries had grown tired of each other, and aimed their nuclear missiles to their neighbor. They tried to settle it with land disputes, battles all across the globe, but eventually it led to the bombs dropping. I was put out before then, but from what I remember, over 90% of the established nations would've been blown to hell." Mycroft nodded eagerly, asking him more questions, about the land, the nation that they stood on now, where supplies might've been stashed, etc. He answered what he could, knowing more would start to come back now.
Sherlock took him back to the well on a cloudy afternoon not two days after, and they carefully pulled his maker out of the hole, an old skeleton that John held with more care than he thought possible. A fire was built, and John placed the bones gingerly on the flames, watching them burn and pop as the heat grew. Sherlock stood solemnly next to him, a hand on his shoulder, and together they waited until the fire had burnt itself to small embers, the breeze blowing away the ash into the wind. Night had already fallen by the time they began walking back to the hut, silently and side by side, Sherlock still keeping him close.
His memories were still coming back, sluggishly, but they bore little consequence, and only a scant amount of pain. The villagers were more than grateful for him, and Mycroft was pleased with his information. He had a new home, the same purpose, and his maker was still with him, still playing the violin and refusing to eat, frustrating John to no end, even if Sherlock didn't realize it.
Really, nothing had changed, and that was fine.
AN: I have a soft spot for robots with feelings and post-apocalyptic worlds. So sue me. Inspired partly by the Fallout franchise. Let me know your thoughts~