(A/N: Hi. So again. Not dead. Yeah. I just wanted to make note that I try to make covers for all my stories and I'm especially proud of this one. :) You don't have to look if you don't care, but yeah... That's all.)
The first androids were very simple. Their eyes were a screen; their nose nonexistent; their mouths a strip of lights that illuminates when they speak; their ears simple microphones. The poor things even moved with the stereotypical jerky right angles. Nothing about them was original or different or very human. Just a factory made copy that was mass-produced for the entertainment of the human race.
But then technology developed and people began to try to make the artificial more natural. The second model was rushed and really only half complete when released to the public. It was more human in appearance at least (it had physical, three dimensional, blinking eyes, a moving jaw, eyebrows, and a nose), but it was still slapdash at best. The movements were jerky and stuttered, overall very doll-like, and each android was still identical. People were still amazed and scrambled to purchase the latest model.
With the proper motivation of monetary origins, the companies began developing new technology that would give the robots an even more human appearance, but human-like individualities as well. Yes, there were only a few variations, but it was still a big step forward. Again the populace was astounded by the advances and delighted by the ability to choose.
Finally, after years of tinkering and developing and redesigning, the most recent model, mark 4P7, was completed. Synthetic skin, artificial eyes, and a mastery of mechanical makings perfectly placed and fully functional led to the most successful droid to date. All physical characteristics were randomized in production, created by a mixture of countless options which allowed for infinite possibilities and almost no identical product. Even the physical age differed. Each droid is fitted out with a base chip that programmed them with both control of their artificial body and rudimentary understanding of the world and the politics included.
But beyond that, the android is blank. They are hollow, empty canvases waiting to be filled. This was the main reason for the success in sales. The personality chip was equipped with a learning programme. The first two weeks after purchase and activation, the droid would assimilate all the details and information they could about their owner and build a personality that perfectly accented theirs. Of course there was a default personality programme if the droid was unable to gather enough information, it would fill in the gaps however many or few there were.
Once those preliminary weeks were complete, the android would fully activate, becoming conscious and self-aware. With initial testing there were rarely any failures and those were usually due to mistreatment of the android, and even those instances were purposeful. In the end, one final string of code was added to the base chip spelling out the ultimate rule: Never harm your owner.
The 4P7 was released when Sherlock was just out of Uni. He didn't much care for the animatronic merchandise and so paid no attention to the surge in sales. Not too soon after he graduated, nearly everybody had their own 4P7-droid and problems began to arise. Not with the product, no. With the owners. Some grew too attached, seeing the pieces of machinery as sentient. Others remained too apathetic, feeling no qualms about abusing pieces of metal and plastic.
Activists arose, demanding that laws needed to be put into place limiting what the owner could do to the distributed product. They initially insisted that no creature deserves to be treated in such cruel manners, but they were ignored and dismissed as loons. But the protesters got smart. They realized that tackling the issue from a humanitarianism angle would get them nowhere. So they changed their tune.
The activists began collecting data and information and eventually built a case that argued that any sort of physical or sexual abuse or neglect was damaging to the product. And due to the lack of any sort of warning or contract, said abusers could return the android and demand a new one. It would mean a loss of profit for the company. And no company could stand being in the red.
This time, the activists were heard. The production companies quickly began writing up a contract that listed all scenarios in which the right to a replacement was nulled and void. They contacted all current 4P7-droid owners and requested that they either agreed to the contract or lost all right to a replacement droid. Most agreed with no fuss. Others took longer to comply. Those owners were investigated and far too many were found guilty of breaching the contract.
By the time all the commotion died down with the contract firmly in place and the activists temporarily sated, Sherlock had already experienced two overdoses and Lestrade's threat to ban him from crime scenes unless he was perfectly clean forced the consulting detective to drop drugs cold turkey. His dear brother Mycroft thought it was best, after Sherlock's first relapse, to send the young adult away to rehabilitation. And, despite all of Sherlock's moaning and complaining, it did actually help. He recovered in two thirds of the time with a lower chance of relapse.
Once he was out in the world again, consulting and solving crimes and whatnot, Sherlock found it a bit difficult to cope on the slower days. The lack of adrenaline from cases, his theoretically harmless substitute, did nothing to help the insatiable itch for an artificial high. On a particularly bad day, Sherlock discovered the joys of nicotine. Unfortunately a couple of months later, he then discovered the joys of public smoking regulations. Meaning when Sherlock was told to put one out, he haughtily refused before deducing the restaurant owner's multiple affairs and, consequentially, being arrested.
It didn't help that he tore the officer, one Sally Donovan, a new one about her desperate need to prove her self-worth through sexual intercourse with married men.
In any case, Lestrade was furious, Mycroft was disappointed, and Mummy had had enough. She insisted that Sherlock would find a lasting companion within six months or she would buy him one. Sherlock tried, as to say he made an effort to find a flatmate whilst being his usual self, and continuously failed. None of the potential acquaintances lasted longer than three days.
Not a day later, a package arrived at 221B Baker Street for one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The human sized box was taken upstairs with a little bit of effort, but soon enough the tape was torn away and Sherlock looked down at his new "companion" with disgust.
It wasn't that he had anything against the droids. In fact, Mrs. Hudson the landlady was a darling thing that was initially purchased as a nanny/grandmother for some busybody bankers, but was fired when the children began to identify her as the parent as opposed to the actual mother and father. She was quickly picked up by a "bot recycling" company and redistributed as a housekeeper for nice, semi expensive flats.
So Sherlock was perfectly comfortable interacting with and around the androids. He just didn't think he needed a companion so badly as to purchase one. It definitely didn't help that this one looked so... plain. From what Sherlock could tell through the outlandish quantity of packing peanuts, he was of medium build, broad in the shoulders and narrower, but only just, at the waist. He was a touch shorter than average, if Sherlock's estimations were correct, and had large feet and dexterous hands. His hair was a soft blonde, almost brown in the shadows, and his ears protruded some. Plain, boring, and ordinary, as to be expected from a robot with a large nose.
However his mummy had sent it, so Sherlock knew not to complain... too loudly.
Turning away from the still form, Sherlock noticed a pale red card that had apparently fallen either during the transport or the opening of the package. Snatching it up with ease, Sherlock quickly read the curving script within.
"Dear Sherlock,
"I do hope you accept this companion graciously as Mummy did put in a lot of thought to this gift. Father did have a hand in it, but you know how controlling Mummy can be.
"For all intents and purposes this 4P7-droid is now yours to care for and look after. I am positive that you have deleted the basic warranty contract, so the necessary documents are closed within. But I am also sure that you will ignore it plainly out of spite.
"For reasons undisclosed to me, Mummy and Father decided that a pre-owned android would better fit you. This particular one was an army bot, used as medical support on front lines. He was shot in the shoulder, damaging his hardware, and subsequently powered down. All necessary repairs have been made, including the wiping of both his memory bank and personality drive, and only the damaged synthetic skin around the bullet wound remains. Apparently it was more efficient to close and seal the hole in the skin rather than graft on or replace the skin entirely.
"Do not perform experiments on this android, Sherlock. You know how that would disappoint Mummy."
There was no signature, but Sherlock didn't need one. The distain emanating from the diction was a sign enough. But now Sherlock's curiosity was sparked. Why would Mummy give him a used droid? She had very high standards so it must be for a reason. And where was the damage from the gunshot wound? Sherlock hadn't seen any sort of "scar", but the Styrofoam pieces did cover a lot.
Squatting by the box, Sherlock began brushing aside the packaging, tossing aside the roll of paper that was most assuredly the contract. Seconds later Sherlock laid eyes on the wound. It was far smaller than he expected, pink and puckered, but that was most likely because it was the entry wound. The exit was probably far more mangled.
He ghosted a hand over the synthetic flesh. It was cool to the touch and felt a bit rubbery, but once the motors started up the droid would generate enough heat to replicate the human's normal 37 degrees. With a prodding finger, Sherlock could feel where the synthetic skin was stretched thin and easily discerned the thread used to close the wound.
Hand still resting on the droid's shoulder, Sherlock reassessed the still form before him. Now he could see how the lines on his face were not built but gained and noticed the silver that peppered the short hair. Perhaps this droid still had some stories to tell. It was theoretically possible for the wipe to have missed a few facts that had stored in other areas of the software.
Sighing, Sherlock figured that it was high time that he activated the 4P7-droid and got the preliminary period over and done with. He reached around the android's neck to the control screen. Every droid had one, on their nape, and it contained the activation switch, override switch, and an option to pull up a synopsis of the android's inner workings. Sherlock used it now to activate the droid.
There was a soft chirrup that indicated that Sherlock successfully initiated the startup procedure. Aside from that, the only sign that it had turned on was the soft humming the emanated from the chest of the droid. Knowing that it would take at least an hour before the android was properly "awake", Sherlock flopped unceremoniously onto the couch and slipped into his mind palace.
Sherlock was pulled out of his trance by the feeling of being watched. Before even opening his eyes, he could sense a presence looming over him. Sighing, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at the fully functioning 4P7-droid standing by the couch. He was no more impressive on his feet than he was in the box.
Clothed in just pants, the droid stood half a foot shorter than Sherlock himself with his feet spread slightly apart and his hands clasped lightly behind him. Parade rest, Sherlock mused as he continued to observe the machine observing him. Hopefully he held onto more than just physical habits. The only detail that the droid's awakening revealed was that the eyes were a deep blue that almost looked grey in certain shadows. After a moment or two of a small staring contest, Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down the droid once more before rolling to his feet.
"I suppose you need clothes," he called as he made his way to his bedroom. The android followed silently, as it would continue to do during the imprinting period unless ordered otherwise. Sherlock pulled open his drawers and pulled out a plain tee and an old pair of jeans. Turning, Sherlock threw the clothes to the android, who easily caught them but then made no motion to put them on. Sherlock frowned. "Go on, then. Put on the clothes. We can't have you walking around in just pants. Apparently it's 'indecent'," he ended muttering to himself.
Still no reaction.
"Oh for God's sake." Sherlock took two swift steps and snatched the clothing from the droid's unmoving hands. Tossing the jeans over his shoulder, Sherlock got the shirt ready in his hands. "Sit," he ordered, tilting his head towards the bed. "Arms up." The droid quickly complied. Sherlock fed the arms through the corresponding holes and pulled the rest of it down with a snap. Getting on his knees, Sherlock prepared the jeans.
"I hope you're paying attention because I'm not doing this again." Sherlock glared up at the unresponsive android before telling him softly that he could lower his arms again. The droid watched Sherlock as he began slipping the jeans around his feet. His wide, blue eyes followed Sherlock's hands as they began tugging the trousers up. "Stand up," Sherlock ordered sharply. The droid got to his feet and Sherlock pulled the jeans up to his waist. After buttoning and pulling the zip, Sherlock took a step back.
"It will have to do for now, even if the shirt is inside out," Sherlock murmured, arching a brow at the sight of the tag and seams. "I'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson to get some more clothes your size while I'm out." He turned and left the bedroom, soft footsteps following, and made his way into the living room. Snatching up his belstaff and scarf, Sherlock easily slipped both on before facing the droid who waited a few steps behind him, eyes flickering from Sherlock's chest to his face.
"I suppose if I don't want you to be annoying or squeamish I should bring you with me. But you need shoes," Sherlock looked pointedly at the droid's bare feet peeking out of the too long jeans. Glancing about the room, Sherlock easily located his discarded slippers. They were soft and worn, but had hard soles so they would work. Telling the droid to sit on the couch, Sherlock grabbed the shoes and knelt, once more, in front of the silent machine. He quickly rolled up the jeans' legs till they rest at the droid's ankles. Sherlock then slipped the temporary shoes on and ordered the droid to stand up and follow him.
Sherlock paused by the door, turning to look back at the 4P7-droid that loyally followed just two steps behind. He wondered how those at the Yard would react to his new companion, but really couldn't bring himself to care. Their comments would be no more biting or sharp then they were the day before. Hopefully the droid wouldn't pick up some of Donovan or Anderson's less appetizing habits.
After a week of having a constant shadow, Sherlock had become accustomed to the extra body in his flat. Mrs. Hudson had gladly gone shopping for the droid, after Sherlock promised to reimburse her for the cost. She came back with several pairs of jeans, two sets of nightclothes, a packet of plain collarless shirts, and, for some reason that Sherlock could not begin to fathom, five jumpers of varying colours and patterns. After that first morning, the droid seemed to retain the ability to dress himself, a fact that helped improve Sherlock's day-to-day just a touch.
Mrs. Hudson was beyond delighted when she learned of the android's existence. She fluttered around, smiling and making comments about how it was good that Sherlock had someone else in the flat and how it would be nice to have another droid to talk with. She spent a good five minutes looking the droid over before deeming him a "handsome one" and making Sherlock promise to be good to the poor lad. Mrs. Hudson even took a moment to grip the droid by the shoulders and insist that if he ever needed anything to come talk to her before heading back downstairs, still tittering slightly.
The Yarders' grew used to the droid dogging Sherlock's every step surprisingly quickly, all things considered. Anderson had congratulated him on finding the one thing that couldn't kill him in annoyance. Donovan made an offhand comment on how the android was less of a robot than Sherlock. Lestrade blinked and nodded to the quiet droid, then smiled and got on with business as usual. The rest just stared, but that was much the same. Despite the snide remarks and predictably idiotic comments, the droid was now accepted as a normal part of having Sherlock at a crime scene.
One day, about halfway through the second week of the preliminary period, Sherlock was talking aloud to the quiet droid, something he found himself doing more and more often, about the latest case. Lestrade had dropped a series of missing persons on Sherlock's lap, asking for a connection and then help catching the fiend. The connection was easy; Sherlock figured it out in under an hour. However, it had been two days since the last kidnapping and the trail was going cold; meaning the perpetrator was getting away. As he was normally bound to do, Sherlock had neglected to eat and sleep until his "transport" forced him to do so.
In any case, Sherlock was simply letting his thoughts hit the open air as he lounged on the couch. Sherlock was so engrossed in his contemplations that he didn't notice when the droid got up from the red armchair that had quickly become his. At least not until he returned and gently set a cuppa on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock stopped mid rant and stared at the cup before snapping his eyes up to the droid who had already settled himself back down in his chair. Sherlock sat up, cup in hand, and took a sip. The tea was just as Sherlock preferred, sweetened with just a splash of milk.
This was unprecedented. No 4P7-droid has ever made a conscious decision during the gestation period, ever. However, no one has ever wiped a droid's memory and personality bank for reuse. If any droids were "recycled" their personalities and experiences were retained and they were placed according to those specifications, like Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps the droid retained more than initially anticipated. Sherlock had noticed several distinct interactions that were singular to this droid. He suspected that most of them were from his previous military training.
But now, Sherlock was fully convinced that the wipe was not completely successful. Quickly swallowing the rest of the tea down, Sherlock gave a nod in thanks before dashing into the kitchen to write up a set of questions and a number of tests to run the droid through once the first two weeks were up. Glancing back into the living room, Sherlock noted that while the droid remained seated in the red armchair, he had still turned so he could watch Sherlock.
Finally the day had come. Sherlock had received the 4P7-droid on a Tuesday and now it was a fortnight later on Wednesday and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had gathered to see the droid wake properly for the first time. He had shut down the day before to run the final logistics before rebooting with his personality intact. Sherlock only noticed when the droid didn't follow his movements to the kitchen. As soon as he knew, Sherlock dashed downstairs to inform Mrs. Hudson who had earlier insisted that she be there for the awakening. Now they sat, Sherlock in his chair directly across from the droid's and Mrs. Hudson on the couch, waiting for the android to finally awake.
"So what is his name?" Mrs. Hudson asked, wriggling slightly with excitement. Sherlock blinked and looked over to the older woman.
"I don't know. I haven't really called him anything," Sherlock replied before turning back to face the still droid.
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Sherlock, he needs a name. Do you mean to tell me that you've been chattering away without calling him anything?" she admonished with a frown.
Sherlock scoffed. "I wanted to see what he would come up with. So far my observations have led to some very interesting conclusions. This will be one of the final steps," Sherlock murmured into his hands as he gently stroked his chin. Throwing his hand down on his lap and leaning forward, Sherlock turned and snapped, "And it's not like you were given a name, Martha Hudson."
Mrs. Hudson gave a small squeak. "Of course I didn't," she bit out a moment later. "I am honestly surprised that those horrible parents remembered to name their own children. Even if it were something as similar as Jeremy and Jamie." Sherlock blinked at the sudden harshness from the landlady. She was normally so soft-spoken. "And let me tell you, it has been hell. Being named is a way that owners can show the droid that they are wanted. It is a show of possession and I know that army droids usually aren't given names either, so the poor dear deserved it this time. Especially after serving Queen and country as he did." Mrs. Hudson quickly dissolved from righteous anger to a deep sadness.
Sherlock frowned, turning what she just said over in his mind. He opened his mouth to give a sort of apology, but was cut off by four ascending notes that signified the 4P7-droid had successfully rebooted. Both he and Mrs. Hudson eagerly turned to the twitching form. After a beat or two, the droid's eyes blinked open, he sat up, and turned to face first Sherlock then Mrs. Hudson.
And he smiled.
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands and wiggled with excitement. "Oh, dearie, that's a lovely smile." The droid's smile quickly fell and switched to one of anger then confusion and continued to change from emotion to emotion before settling to something slightly awed and very curious.
Finally the droid's gaze focused on the other two and he blinked rapidly. "Oh," he said softly, his voice sounding a touch synthetic for just a moment before settling. "Hello."
"Good..." Sherlock paused to check his wristwatch, "evening. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady. You are in 221B Baker Street, my flat, and Mrs. Hudson lives downstairs." The droid watched as Sherlock gave brisk introduction, looking from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson and back again. "Do you understand?" Sherlock asked, reassuring that the droid's memory bank was functioning properly.
"Of course," the droid nodded sharply. "Mrs. Hudson: landlady who lives downstairs. Sherlock Holmes: lives in 221B, the flat we are currently in, and I assume my owner. Easy." Sherlock gave a small smirk. This bodes well for Sherlock's questioning.
"What's your name, dear?" Mrs. Hudson chimed in. Sherlock stiffened. He had almost forgotten about the name.
"Doctor John Watson. Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." John gave a sharp nod in place of a salute. Sherlock smiled outright. There was no way that was part of the original programming. He was now positive that the wipe was mostly unsuccessful.
The first thing that Sherlock did was barrage John with questions. He asked how much he remembered from Afghanistan, which was irritatingly little. Beyond the name and mannerisms, John had no conscious memory of the time before his wipe. However when Sherlock switched subjects to personal interests, John held up a hand before making his way into the kitchen. Curious, Sherlock followed and was surprised, but only slightly, to find that the droid was making tea.
Sherlock quickly learned that John was a man of habit. Every morning he would turn on, make tea and toast, and sit in the red armchair as he waited for Sherlock to emerge, whether from his own room or his mind palace. Being a man of action, Sherlock learned to work around John's idiosyncrasies. So far, Sherlock hadn't seen any explicit example of how John's personality matched his own and wasn't even positive if the personality that John had displayed was constructed for him. For all Sherlock knew, this John Watson is an exact replica of Captain John Watson.
The real test came when Sherlock received a text from Lestrade calling him in.
And don't force the droid to come, Sherlock. Let it be his choice.
-GL
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily at the implication, but decided to see for himself if John really was made for him.
Leaping to his feet, Sherlock strode over to the front door and snatched his coat off the rack. John barely glanced up from some overdramatic crime novel that had held his interest the last few days.
"Where you going, Sherlock?" John asked, licking his thumb before turning the page.
Sherlock sighed and lowered his head as if the question had the most obvious answer in the world. "Well, John, seeing as I am putting on my coat and scarf, one would assume I was going out." Sherlock turned just enough to shoot John a contempt look. John just stared back, lifting one brow. "Fine. Lestrade has called me in for a case and I was about to head out," Sherlock revised, carefully watching the relaxed droid.
"Oh, is that all?" John muttered as he focused back on the book. With only five chapters remaining things were picking up.
"Do you want to come?" Sherlock's voice broke the small silence.
John blinked. "What?" He looked up to see the tall consulting detective very nervous. It wasn't that Sherlock was twitching or fidgeting. In fact it was his stillness that revealed just how important this question was to him. John had been subject to a large variance of questions, most asking of his previous life to which John had no answers to when he was awake. But none of them affected Sherlock like this. The rest were analytical. This one seemed personal.
"Do you. Want to come. To the crime scene. With me." Sherlock repeated slowly.
John looked at Sherlock for a long time, taking note that with each passing minute Sherlock seemed to grow both more agitated and resigned. "I want to finish my book," John began. He wanted to run an experiment of his own.
Sherlock scoffed. "The gardener's wife did it with the help of the stable boy," he recited, ignoring John's protests and groans of acceptance. "Now. Will you come with me? Please."
It was the please that made John's decision. Not every master would ask at all, most would just order. Very few asked more than once. Even fewer would actually come that close to begging. With this in mind, John tugged on the leather jacket that had been his for as long as he could remember and followed Sherlock down the stairs.
Sherlock was a bit taken aback by how easy he could tolerate John's presence. Before was different, the droid simply followed around silently, not cluttering the air with his obvious, idiotic thoughts or imbecilic comments and questions. Now he was awake and active and interacted and thought and spoke and yet there had only been a few moments of irritation. After only three days that was very promising indeed.
This was the first crime scene that Sherlock had been to since John's awakening. Normally Sherlock would've been crawling up the walls in an effort to fight boredom, but with John's not-quite-wiped memory, Sherlock had plenty to entertain himself with. It was both a blessing and a curse that John hadn't come face-to-face with one of Sherlock's darker moods yet.
With John his usual two steps behind him, Sherlock strode towards the crime scene. Donovan stood at its perimeter and smirked when she saw the two of them coming. Crossing her arms, she made no move to lift the tape and let them through and Sherlock came to a stop just in front of her.
"Well, well, well. Look who's awake," Sally smirked, glancing past Sherlock's shoulder at John behind him. "Gotten sick of you yet?" Sally directed towards the consulting detective. Sherlock chose to remain silent. "Well he will soon enough." Now she looked back at John. "I doubt it will take long. Freak here is probably hell to live with."
John, who remained stoic and straight faced throughout the entire exchange, tilted his head to the side and observed the woman before him. "Who is this, Sherlock?" he asked softly.
"John, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Sally, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock's introduction was brisk and to the point. "Donovan, if you would be so kind as to-"
"'Doctor John Watson'? Doctor?!" Sally laughed. "Sherlock this droid has only been awake for less than a week. There is no way it could be a certified physician." John remained silent, but Sherlock felt the man behind him stiffen.
"Firstly, John is not an 'it'. If you chose to use prepositions instead of his name, you should use 'he'," Sherlock practically snarled, glaring at the policewoman. "Secondly, if you took a moment to think before speaking, you would have remembered that one can order a droid with specific information pre-programmed. I could have easily requested one with at least rudimentary medical knowledge." Sally's frown deepened. "But if you must know, John is a retired military droid whose memory and personality banks were improperly wiped leaving behind both his name and rank, but also his extensive medical knowledge. Now if you'll excuse me," Sherlock stepped around the stunned Sergeant and lifted the tape. "John," he called.
John quickly passed under the police tape and Sherlock soon followed, not pausing a moment before continuing towards the crime scene. John however lingered, watching Sally carefully. When she noticed his gaze, she sneered, though not as harshly as she did towards Sherlock.
"What do you want?" Sally snapped. "Shouldn't you be with your master like a good dog?"
"I pride myself in being an understanding man," John began softly. "But as far as first impressions go, you scored poorly in my book. It is my understanding that Sherlock was asked to be here and that the police were professionals." John voice grew sterner with each sentence, leaving Sally more than a bit uncomfortable. "I may have only consciously known Sherlock for three days, but those two weeks weren't pointless. I understand this man in a way that you, who has been working with him for years, seem incapable of."
Sally snorted. "You act as if I care."
John's eyes hardened, turning a stormy grey. "I care. And if I hear you refer to Sherlock as 'freak' again, there will be consequences." With that, John turned about-face and followed Sherlock. Sally remained frozen on the far side of the tape. If that Watson stuck around, she would have to watch her step.
Sherlock was overjoyed. The case Lestrade presented was actually one worth his focus and John seemed just as invested. Sherlock had examined the body and rambled of his conclusions so Lestrade could take note, as usual. But then John had breathlessly exclaimed, "Amazing." Even now Sherlock was unsure why something in his chest fluttered and he felt his ears growing hot.
Where his deductions were usually met with disdain or disgust, John had seen them as something worthy of his praise. That had never happened before. True, Lestrade saw it as useful, but no one else had ever claimed Sherlock's ability to actually see as extraordinary or amazing or fantastic. And such praise from John was even more significant.
After the first two weeks, Sherlock had not been idle. He requested John's military file from Mycroft, who happily complied with the promise of Sherlock's assistance on any case of his choosing. Mycroft had obviously anticipated the request as he had the file ready and on hand. Sherlock had spent a good six hours reviewing John's military career.
The number of lives he saved... was daunting. Every commanding officer, and any officer under John's command, had good things to say about the droid. And considering how difficult it is for droids to move up in the ranks, John's position of Captain was even more impressive. So basically John was a good man who save a good many lives and made a good number of friends as a result. He was built for physical activities and had a horrible temper, but extraordinary patience. Sherlock could see why his parents chose John to reuse.
In any case, John seemed amazed by Sherlock's deductions and undeterred by his sharp tongue, lack of filter, and atrocious habits. Sherlock was beginning to see how John's personality was a match for his own.
Sherlock was beginning to feel less alone.
The case ended with a good chase through the London streets. Sherlock easily mapped out the perpetrator's path and planned an intersection point before dashing off into the night. John easily kept pace, following Sherlock through the twists and turns of the alleyways and streets. They both quickly caught up with the man who had been murdering both men and women with blond hair and blue eyes.
The man was cornered and turned to face Sherlock and John. Without a moment's hesitation, he leapt forward, knife flashing in the dim light. Sherlock had expected the attack and easily avoided it, but didn't see the right hook or the swift kick to the head. He was unconscious within seconds.
Sherlock never saw the unadulterated rage that overtook John. He never saw how the soldier come out. He never saw how efficiently John disarmed the man. How John then knocked the man off his feet. How John pinned the man with his knees and punched him bloody until the man lost consciousness himself. He never saw how John gave one last kick to the gut.
All Sherlock saw was the genuine worry on John's face as he examined Sherlock. At first John wasn't even in focus; his face blurry, but his eyes clear and full of concern. But his eyes quickly adjusted and Sherlock couldn't stop the soft smile in response to John's obvious relief. Sherlock sat through John's ministrations until the man determined the state of Sherlock's head wound: superficial with no need for stitches.
If John noticed Sherlock leaning into his gentle touch, he didn't say anything.
When Lestrade arrived on scene, he took one glance at the beaten, bruised, and bloody body on the ground and frowned at John. John simply stared back, not one ounce of denial or regret anywhere on his features. Lestrade simply shook his head. There was nothing he could do and that was surprisingly okay. John was obviously good for Sherlock.
Sherlock and John quickly became an effective team. They worked well together, both professionally and personally, and even Anderson, the idiot he is, noticed how Sherlock was less likely to cut with his sharp tongue and more courteous in general. Mycroft happily relayed the improvement to his parents and Mummy was quite pleased.
It was about three months after John properly awakened that they ran into one of his old army buddies, Bill Murray. Sherlock and John had just finished a rather complicated case involving encrypted notes, missing jewelry, and a cat and were heading to their favorite Indian place to get some curry. John, who had taken to blogging about the cases, was trying to decide whether to call the case "A Bad Joke" or "Don't Quit Your Day Job". He thought both were delightfully clever as the guilty party were running their smuggling operation beneath a comedy bar, but Sherlock believed them both to be as idiotic as the rest.
They were in the midst of arguing the need for witty titles when someone called out from behind, "Captain John Watson!" Turning, they saw a rather large man jogging towards them. He was well muscled and tall. Tall enough that, as he drew nearer, Sherlock had to tilt his head up. He also had long brown hair that met his shoulders and soft blue-green eyes. Both Sherlock and John had stopped and watched his approach.
It took Sherlock a few moments, but he recognized him as William "Bill" Murray from John's unit in Afghanistan. He was the soldier that John was tending to when he was shot through the shoulder. John obviously had no clue who the man calling him was, but wore a polite smile nonetheless.
"Captain Watson," Murray saluted. When John cautiously returned the salute, the man smiled before pulling the droid into a hug. John squeaked in surprise and Murray set him down again, apologizing. "Sorry, sir. I just... I was told you were decommissioned after your shoulder was destroyed and then I saw you and it couldn't have been you, but it was and-"
John held up a hand, causing Murray to swallow his next words. "I'm sorry-" John glanced over to Sherlock.
"Bill Murray," Sherlock supplied.
"I'm sorry, Murray," John continued. "I don't know who you are. They wiped me clean before I was purchased and given to Sherlock here." Murray's wide smile fell with each word. "I recognise your name from the report I read, but aside from that, my name and rank, and what Sherlock has told me, I know nothing of who I was." Sherlock watched as Murray mulled things over and saw when the man came to his decision.
"I understand, Captain," Murray chuckled lightly. "But I'd still like to catch up. At least so I can get some closure." The man's eyes grew wet and he gripped John's shoulders, making sure not to put too much pressure on his left one. "I felt it was my fault you got shot, my fault you were decommissioned. Seeing you here helps a bit, but just talking might help more." Murray finished by pinning John with the most sincere look of anguish and need.
Sherlock had to bite his tongue. Murray was obviously playing to the side of John that had to help. And while it was blatant manipulation, Sherlock knew that learning more of his past might help John remember. And it might help Sherlock understand why John fit him so perfectly.
Five minutes later, they were in a pub. Sherlock was in the middle with John on one side and Murray on the other. There was a moment or two of silence where Murray watched John watch Sherlock stare at the table, but it was broken by John standing and announcing he would get the first round. With John away from the booth Sherlock turned his gaze on the soldier.
"Here on leave," Sherlock began without preamble, "but not visiting your family because they disliked your decision to join the army in the first place. You were engaged for a few years but you returned to recuperate from the same attack that invalided John to find your fiancée with not just a man, but a woman as well. You dislike dogs but take them in on a regular basis because you successfully ran away from home for two months and understand their struggle. You do feel guilty about John's decommission, but only want to talk to see if he has changed in any way. You are essentially harmless," Sherlock slowed before taking a breath. "But let me tell you. If you injure or upset John in any way, you will regret it. Immensely," he finished in an almost growl.
Murray sat back, mouth hanging open, as he processed all the information dumped in a manner of moments. Just as John was returning with the drinks, Murray blurted, "How much was on that file?"
John pinned Sherlock with a disapproving glare. "Sherlock," he began, handing Murray his pint before lowering his own.
"I didn't expose any large secret that would be detrimental to his pride or reputation," Sherlock responded, carelessly waving away the warning.
Murray scoffed. "I don't know. Maybe the bit about my cheating fiancée was a bit 'detrimental'."
"SHERLOCK!" John slammed Sherlock's ice water on the table in front of him. "You know better than to deduce peoples' personal lives unless it is for a case or they request it. And only then if you check and double check, warning them that you won't omit anything." John turned to Murray who watched on silently. "I'm sorry if he offended you or was insensitive in any way. He's a git like that."
John waited for Murray to respond, but he only looked between Sherlock and John before chuckling softly. The chuckle quickly turned into a full-bellied laugh. Soon there were tears gathering on the corners of Murray's eyes. As he calmed, Murray wiped them away with his thumbs. John just watched, eyes wide with surprise.
"Oh, Cap'," Murray sighed, still smiling. "You haven't changed one bit."
Sherlock had remained mostly silent as John and Murray talked, only interrupting to scoff or add his usual commentary of "tedious" or "obvious" or "boring". Finally John stood, groaning.
"I need to the loo," he announced, stretching. Scooting out of the booth, John took a step towards the marked bathroom before pausing and turning to face Sherlock. "Don't be rude, Sherlock. You've already done your deductions," he ordered, keeping his finger level with his flatmate's nose. With that John left, leaving Sherlock and Murray alone once more.
The silence remained, thick and tense, until Murray surged forward and slapped his hands on the table. "How did you do it?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.
Sherlock inhaled. "It was just simple observation and knowing the statistical likelihood correlated with such detail and-"
"Not the deductions," Murray interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "How did you get Cap' to generate the same personality? Did you lock him in a room and let it work on its own? Did you get his previous personality stats and calculate the behaviour that would replicate it exactly? That seems like something you would do." Murray gasped falling back against the seat. "Did you hack his chip?" he whispered, eyes wide.
Sherlock sighed. "Don't be so dull," he huffed. "I didn't do anything."
"But he is exactly the same," Murray insisted. "Happier than I've ever seen him, but otherwise not different at all. The statistical probability of that happening is nigh on impossible."
"Highly improbable, not impossible," Sherlock corrected with a wry grin. Leave it to Mummy to find a droid whose initial personality complimented his own. Murray just smiled, shaking his head slightly.
"Unbelievable," he chuckled. "Leave it to Cap' to find the one man he was made for." Just then John returned and Murray jolted, looking away from John guiltily.
"What did I miss?" he asked, looking between the two men, smile only half real. "Sherlock, why are you smiling?" Sherlock jolted, the small smile that had spread on his face unknowingly quickly falling away.
John watched as Sherlock moved about the crime scene, coat flaring behind him. Sally Donovan sauntered over to where John was waiting, at the edge of the scene. She had been cautious around the droid for the first few cases after his warning, but quickly warmed to the man. Despite his association with the fr- ... with Sherlock, John seemed normal enough.
"What're you smiling about?" Sally asked quietly. John started, blinking a few times before looking up at Sally.
"I'm sorry?"
"You were smiling. What were you smiling about?" she asked again. The closeness between master and droid was a normal thing, but Sherlock and John's connection always appeared a bit ... unnatural. As if there was something else drawing them together. The Yard currently had a small pot going and Sally had bet that Sherlock and John were at least shagging if not properly dating.
John gave a small huff. "I was just thinking." Sally looked at him expectantly. "What if I hadn't been given to Sherlock? I might not be as happy as I am now." Sally scoffed and John turned to quirk an eyebrow at her. "No, I'm serious." John sniffed and frowned, staring at his feet. "I ran into an old army buddy about a month ago. He seemed surprised to see me." John pinned Sally with an intense stare. "He was even more surprised to find my personality the same as it was before."
Sally's eyes widened. Now she understood. Because the personality programming was randomized and there were so many different possibilities for the multitude of characteristics that duplicate personalities were almost impossible on the factory level. The fact that the personality produced after observing Sherlock was identical to his previous one was mind-boggling.
"But," Sally began, "you're a good man, John. Why did Sherlock do to deserve you?" John glared at her, eyes hard and spine stiff. Sally quickly backtracked, throwing her hands up. "I mean, his personality. He is harsh and cruel and uncaring..." she trailed off.
John sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before staring resignedly towards the consulting detective who was currently announcing his conclusions. "I know. I know," he murmured. "But he's not. Not really."
"What do you mean?" Sally asked cautiously.
"You see Sherlock as a cold, sociopathic freak who isn't deserving of a speck of kindness, but did it ever occur to you that maybe that is why he's like that?" John frowned. "I haven't been with Sherlock long, but I feel like I know him better than anyone has in a while. I think that isolation has forced him to put up a guard around people because they're more likely to attack than try and understand." Sally blinked at John. "You know Sherlock publically. I know him personally.
"I've seen how he opens when he talks about something he finds interesting. I know how he can smile if one of his experiments go as he predicted." John began to smile. "I can recognize his emotions in his music. I can spot a hidden smile when I do something unexpected." The small smile that had grown on John's face quickly fell into a frown. "I have seen how certain words, a choice insult, causes him to withdraw more. The way he closes up to prevent any sort of emotion from showing, as if he has been burned before."
Sally swallows and shifts uncomfortably.
"So he may act harsh and cruel and uncaring, but I see Sherlock for who he really is." John's eyes were trained on the man in question, the smile firmly back in place. "Sherlock is a child, easily excited and easily hurt. But he has been burned one too many times and is cautious to come out of his shell. Once bitten, twice shy, right?" John chuckled softly, licking his lips. "Sherlock has a brilliant mind and just so happens to care too much about other peoples' opinion. The way he tries to hide his smile when he is complimented is telling enough."
John turned to face the now red Sergeant. "So, Sally Donovan, yes, Sherlock can be cruel and cold and sociopathic. But he is also caring and brilliant and more deserving of praise than most. I am definitely lucky to be his friend." Sally was about to respond, but Sherlock walked up at that precise moment, effectively silencing her.
"Come along, John," Sherlock drawled, eyeing the tense Sergeant, "we're done here. Far easier than Lestrade made it out to be." They both turned to walk away, Sherlock's gaze lingering on the policewoman before snapping to his shorter companion. They were halfway to the waiting cab when Sherlock murmured, "What did you say to her?"
John stopped by the car, pulling open the door and pausing to look back at the detective. "The truth," he said simply before getting in.
(A/N: Fun fact: 4P7 was meant to "spell" apt with is a synonym of proper. It was as close to something that meant perfect. And, in case you couldn't tell, I picture this Bill Murray as Jared Padalecki. I don't know why. Just felt like it.
Anyways. This is my monster oneshot that will hopefully help break the block that has been bothering me for a while now [even though I feel like I left a lot of things unresolved]. Fingers crossed that this works. If not I have plenty of other prompts [read "plot bunnies"] I could do until I am inspired in some of my other stories.
I am not gone. I have not abandoned my stories. I am just stuck in traffic.
Thanks for waiting. :3
OH! And I have opened another account under the name "Clom". It will house some of the more... mature fics that are jumbled in my mind. I've already posted one titled Prime Directive. Feel free to check it out. :D)