"Open the door Sherlock, my hands are full." I don't know why I always ask. He never gets the door.

Just as I try to get my keys from my coat pocket, I hear the quick deliberate footsteps that can only be -

Sherlock opens the door, smiles at me, and grabs the bags of groceries. Something is off. Usual gray trenchcoat, blue scarf thrown around the neck. He sets the groceries on the table, turns around, and asks, "Why are you still standing in the doorway, dear Watson?"

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, why do you ask, dear Watson?"

I have to squint to look at him from head to toe because the blinds are drawn and I just stepped in from the mid-morning streets, but I can still tell there's something different. It's not exactly his hair, nor his face - at least not its structure. It might've been the speech. He's never called me by my surname, nor preceded it with such adjectives as to signify any sort of intimacy. But that's not all, either.

"You smiled at me!"

"Yes, dear Watson."

"No, I mean, genuinely. And you opened the door! And you relieved me of the groceries!" I pause. It dawns on me. "You were nice!"

"Yes, dear Wat -" BANG.

"Sherlock!" One second he was standing there in the dim living room, the next he is face-down on the carpet, a bullet having gone through his head right between the eyes. I didn't have time to react. The shooter must be in Sherlock's bedroom, that was the direction of the shot. I crouch down. My gun is inside and I don't even have the groceries to cover me should I be the gunman's next target. Sherlock is motionless. The dimness spares me the view of any blood that must no doubt be spurting out from his - No. This can't be happening. Please.

"Oh don't look so upset John, shock is a serious disadvantage." Sherlock ambles out of his bedroom, his aqua nightgown flowing about him, his feet shuffling in his sleep slippers, the pistol still smoking in his hand. He stops at the dead body, sniffs as if there were some allergen in the air, and fires a second shot on its back. The body twitches but does not otherwise respond. Just a bare discharge of remaining neural activity. No question about it, the person who may or may not be Sherlock is dead.

"N- No! What are you? Who are you?" I regain the strength in my legs and bolt toward the second Sherlock. He rolls his eyes as I pin him against the blinds. "Give me an explanation or I will - "

"Robot, John. Now hand me my phone, I need to text Lestrade."

I don't move. Just in case. How can I trust him?

"In my pocket, John. My phone."

"A robot?"

"Yes, yes, a robot," Sherlock answers impatiently. Sighing, he pushes me off him, retrieves his phone from his pocket, and ambles back into his room. "Clean up the remains, will you? I'm starting over," he calls out before closing the door.

I shut my eyes to register what has just happened. So that's what he's been doing all this week, locked up in his room. That explains the odd metallic tinkering at 3 in the morning, the hiss of pistons, the recent shipment of circuit boards and silicon. Not to mention the vats of flesh-colored mush he's been simmering on the stove. It must've been what he used for the skin. I knew there was something uncanny about the way it congealed in the fridge. As gingerly as I can, I approach the dead body - no - the defunct robot, and I pull up the blinds to let in the light. Now it is all visible. It's not that I couldn't see any blood earlier. There is no blood. The bullet zipped through a tangle of wires. I try to keep my hands from shaking as I flip it over onto its back; I don't like this. It's a robot made to look just like Sherlock and it was never alive but still I don't like this at all, looking down at the same face that I see every day. My best friend dead, now that is a sick idea. But this is not Sherlock, John, I remind myself, this is an invention. Created by Sherlock and subsequently destroyed - "Wait a second," I mutter. "Wait a second!"

I knock on his door. "Sherlock! What do you mean you're 'starting over'? You're making another one?" No response. "Because if you are, you should really let me know so I can be prepared to have two of you around." I glance back at the robot on the carpet. "Not that I mind one of you being so nice all the time. I was practically falling in love with this one here, it's a real shame you went ahead and shot it between the eyes." The door opens and Sherlock peers out at me, one eyebrow raised. I stare back, unflinching. The shock has dissipated by now. I've stopped shaking. "I don't think any robot could ever manage to pull off that particular look of disgust you wear."

"And I'd have never thought you'd fall for anyone with my face, dear Watson."

"Well what was wrong with that one anyways?" I quickly ask, pointing behind me.

"Subpar semantics. I must've forgotten to implement an additional element in its broca's circuit."

"What does that mean?"

"Semantics, John, its use of words."

I think back to the way it spoke. Polite, admittedly, but nothing egregiously wrong. Undoubtedly much more pleasant than the original himself.

"And why do you need a robot?"

"Obviously to project my insatiable narcissism onto an external body." He stares into me and I feel a burning in the back of my head. How does he do that? "I see you took that seriously."

"Oh."

"Experiment, John. Just an experiment. Don't worry your little head over it, you won't be able to tell the difference next time, I assure you. Now get ready, we're meeting Lestrade at the waterfront. New case. Bodies washing up." He looks around. "Have we done the laundry?"

"Uh, no, I don't believe so, not since the last case - Sh-Sherlock?" He'd slid past me and is now crouched next to the robot, stripping it of all clothing. Scarf. Coat. Shirt. Buckle. Pants. Well, everything. Sherlock pulls off his own nightgown and starts putting on the robot's outfit. I avert my gaze as he dresses but instead it lands on the robot, now naked. How odd, a robot being naked. The mimicry is the work of genius. Awkward, to say the least. I can't tell if I'm violating some rule of social conduct by looking at - no, examining - the body of a machine that looks identical to that of my long-term flatmate.

Sherlock pops his collar and adjusts his scarf as he heads out the door. "Coming?"

**Dead bodies washed up ashore, robots made in the image of Sherlock, and a very confused Watson. How will all these disparate elements develop as our duo delves into their newest case? Stay tuned for the next installment!**