"-and I told him it made absolutely no sense to arrest the grocer. Poor fool was color blind, it would be near-impossible for him to drive straight to Kensington with three dogs in his trunk. One of them was a bloodhound who had just given birth, so naturally, you see my point. But of course Lestrade had to- John, are you listening?"

John upsets his teacup and saucer, and watches fresh stains bloom across Mrs. Hudson's lace doilies. "Sorry."

"She'll be cross. We'll have to buy her those lambskin gloves after all." Sherlock sighs and steeples his fingers. "A curious business. Almost as curious as the case with the seven feather dusters. Do you remember that one?"

"Blog them all, don't I?" John replies.

"Yes. Yes, you do."

And Sherlock gives him one of his rare smiles, a begrudging little quirk of his lips that John will never admit fills him with a sense of satisfaction.

"Do me a favor, will you, John? Ring up Mycroft. Anthea will pick up, of course, and try to mislead you by claiming her fat gaffer's ill. If you threaten her life, the Thames will rise- she's got connections of her own, that bloody hellcat- and the Serbian orphans under the pier will drown. Yes, yes, the only way to do it is to tell her a joke. A good one, not the nonsense you find under lids of pop. It'll have to be something about Mycroft so she gets the picture. Tell her you've found that goose that lays golden eggs, the one that lives in Box Five at the Orpheum. Mycroft was always fond of that st-"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"This isn't real, is it? You're not really here."

Sadly, sorrowfully, Sherlock reaches for John's hand. It's cold as ice. "Oh, John-"

"Doctor Watson?"

John jolts up in bed.

Chekov pokes his head into the room and waves. "Good morning!" he sings cheerfully.

"What time is it?" John rubs his eyes blearily.

Sherlock. He had been dreaming of Sherlock. It had made sense in the moment, for some reason. The Thames and the feather dusters and Sherlock sitting across from him as they used to. But he should have realized- they had ruined Mrs. Hudson's doilies long ago, and she had staunchly given up crocheting altogether. As for the case with the feather dusters, it had never happened, but once they found the carcasses of seven pigeons arranged in a circle in the park.

From the beginning, John knew it was a dream. Sherlock's hair was different, for one thing. Straight and immaculate like Khan's, a jarring sight when paired with his frayed bathrobe and its folds askew over the arms of his chair.

John never wanted the dream to end, and maybe his desperation was ultimately his undoing.

He tries not to be mad at Chekov as he drags himself to the sink and douses himself with frigid water. He tries not to be upset when the navigator chatters far too loudly for the early hour. And most of all, he tries not to remember the way Sherlock reached for him in his dream, and how for a moment the pressure was enough for him to believe none of this had ever happened.

"I'm in charge of supervising you today!" Chekov chirps.

"No guards hounding my every move?"

"Just me."

He supposes that's a blessing.

He can't be angry, not when Chekov looks like Christmas came early, and the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his own is starting to fade.

"Scotty and I have been arguing," Chekov says as he leads John through the winding halls to the mess. "He thinks zat when faced with a Quadro-Nine Nexuzeine star, zhe Enterprise would simply erupt into flames and disintegrate in under a minute. His calculations are incorrect. He has an unfortunate habit of misplacing his decimals, and zhe Enterprise would, in fact, be pulled into zhe star's orbit and zhen catch fire, and fall towards it like a meteor."

"Any chance of that actually happening?"

"Once again, zis is where Scotty and I disagree. Quadro-Nine stars are difficult to locate on radar, and by zhe time you notice one, it would be too late. But zhe odds of us actually encountering one are 10.73%, according to Scotty. It is actually 9.86%, but he was getting belligerent, so-" Chekov stops. "Is zat Doctor McCoy?"

Bones, who had just soundlessly slipped out of a room and was attempting to furtively creep down the hallway, freezes. His head snaps towards Chekov's voice, and he immediately pales. "Shit."

"That's strange. Isn't zat zhe Captain's quarters?"

John raises an eyebrow at Bones' unkempt hair and a tell-tale bruise peeking out from beneath his Starfleet collar.

"Chekov!" Bones hisses. He glances up and down the corridor, which is thankfully empty, before advancing on the young officer. "Chekov, I swear to God if you tell anyone what you just saw, I will-" He sighs and massages his temples. "Just- just keep it to yourself, alright? Be discreet."

"Keep what to myself?"

"You're kidding."

Chekov looks between Bones' unnaturally unkempt state and Kirk's room, eyes widening as he finally understands what's being insinuated.

John silently notes that it would have probably been wiser if Bones had simply walked away.

"Tell no one!" Bones growls, threats left to the imagination. "John, watch him." A pair of officers in blue are headed their way, and Bones, tugging his shirt back into place, darts off.

"Did you know about zhis?" Chekov rounds up on John, mouth still agape with shock.

"Since Day One," John replies, not as surprised as Chekov seems to expect. "Come on. Show me if that replicator can make ham and eggs."

"You're hiding something," Scotty says, eyes narrowing at Chekov over his porridge.

"I do not know what you are talking about," Chekov replies, eyes fixated on the Starfleet insignia emblazoned on the engineer's chest.

"No, you definitely have something to say. What is it? Are my assistants fondling in the closet behind the radiator? Did Jim decide to fire me? Or did you walk in on Spock and Uhura again?"

Chekov crosses his arms.

"Are you not telling me because you're still mad about that Quadro-Nine star? I showed you my calculations. You're not the only genius around here."

"Zhis has nothing to do with our disagreement."

"Chekov," Scotty begins testily, "aren't we friends? Good friends?"

"Leave him alone." Sulu sets his food down beside Chekov's, shooing the navigator aside to make room on the bench. John doesn't bother greeting him.

Scotty jabs his spoon at Chekov. "But he knows something we don't!" he exclaims. "Something good, or he would have cracked already. What is it, Pavel? Is it Kirk? Did you see Kirk and Spock... you know."

"What?" Chekov, genuinely confused, looks to John. "But that wouldn't make any sense, because this morning we saw-"

"This is great," John declares loudly, spearing a slice of ham on his fork. "Whatever this is made of. So great. Can't tell the difference."

"I can." Scotty frowns. "That's why I go for the tasteless stuff. The way they try and mimic salt is horrendous." He grins suddenly. "So. Watson's in on it too!"

"I am not." John stabs his egg.

"Liar," Sulu says, his unconcealed animosity making John's cheeks burn.

"Go on, then," Scotty urges. "What's Chekov hiding?"

But Chekov's attention is elsewhere. He's glancing at a girl across the room - a brunette, tall and lithe - and the sight of her makes him blush.

"You dog," Scotty pounces. "You're fooling around with her! When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm not!" Chekov replies indignantly.

"Red shirt- what is she, a yeoman?" Sulu asks, interest conspicuously piqued, hackles raised like a suspicious older brother.

"None of your business."

"What's her name?" Sulu prompts.

"Christine Wieniawska." Chekov stares into the depths of his pudding as Scotty cackles with glee.

"Burke's assistant, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"Nearly a decade older than you too."

"She is six years older."

"Sulu likes rounding up," Scotty says.

"I do not see why her age is of any concern to you." Chekov swirls his pudding with as much aggressiveness as he can muster.

"Oh, ceci." Scotty throws an arm around the navigator and draws him close. "We're just looking out for you."

Chekov pouts. "It does not feel zat way."

"I don't like this," Sulu says sternly. "How long has this been going on?"

"Nozhing is going on!" Chekov exclaims.

"Then what were you getting all flustered for?" Scotty demands. "How far have you gone? Has she taken off her top?"

"You can't trust these Starfleet girls," Sulu adds. "Most of them will let you take them to bed and leave before the night is out. You don't want that."

"You don't know that, Hikaru." Scotty grins conspiratorially at Chekov, who manages to extricate himself from his grasp, only to have his cheeks pinched with a smothering affection. "That could be exactly what he's after."

Sulu wrinkles his nose. "Don't be so crass."

"He's a man! And a Starfleet one at that. You really expect him to saddle up with the first doll he sets his eyes on?"

"First. That's my point, Scotty. First."

"Sentimental," Scotty scoffs. "That's what you are. And there's no point. If Pavel wants to lose it to this Wieniawska then you've got no right to try and hinder him."

"Your first time is one of the most important moments in your life!" Sulu exclaims. "I'm not going to let him throw it away on a Yeoman who's transferring to a new ship the second we finish this business with Khan! Just because you had your first time in a broomshed at Aberdeen-"

"It was a proper dormitory, you ass," Scotty declares loudly, "and I was sixteen and it was glorious. I say he ought to go on and court her. It's the cream of the crop here on the Enterprise. It would be hard to go wrong."

"Don't go near her, Pavel. Am I clear?" Sulu orders.

"You're not his father and he's not a maid," Scotty counters. "Pavel, do as you like."

"Why didn't you tell me when this started? You haven't... fallen for her, have you?"

"You are both seeing zhings zat are not there!" Chekov groans. "I like her. Zat is all!"

John clears his throat, and the three officers jump, having forgotten in the heat of the moment that he's been having breakfast too. "So, uh, are shipboard romances common? You're all so isolated, and I imagine that it can get... awkward."

"It's only awkward if you make it awkward," Scotty replies easily. "Not to brag or anything, but I've made my rounds on the lower-east deck."

Sulu snorts. "Which is the exact opposite end of the ship from the engineering room."

"Play, but play it safe, lads."

"Spock and Lieutenant Uhura are the longest relationship aboard zhis ship zat I know of," Chekov supplies, grateful for the change in subject, as minor as it may be. "Zhey behave professionally, so I do not believe zhere have been any problems."

"Because lowering the crew's morale by fighting in the mess isn't a problem." Bones slams his tray onto the table. He clambers into the bench across from John and Chekov, searching for any sign that the rest of the table know where he had been last night.

"Morning," John says, although space travel is still disorienting and it's always impossible to tell what time it is. There's a pale smudge on the black collar beneath Bones' blue uniform, and if John hadn't happened upon him this morning, he wouldn't have noticed it's a stain from the concealer over his bruises. It's a perfect match to his skin, too perfect to have been a one-off favor from a female officer. Bones must have his own makeup, then, which means he's done this with Kirk before.

Divulging secrets with a glance for the mere sport of it is something Sherlock would do, and it makes John queasy. He pushes his plate away, suddenly sickened by the clotting puddles of yolk.

"So? What are we tormenting Chekov about today?" Bones asks, still glancing between the crewmembers with suspicion.

"He was acting shifty this morning," Scotty replies triumphantly, "but we badgered it out of him."

"Oh?"

John is the only one who seems to notice that Bones is holding his breath.

"He's got a friend. A special friend, if you get my drift."

"No, he doesn't," Sulu says crossly.

"Exactly. I do not!" Exasperatedly, Chekov finishes his pudding and snatches up his dishes. "Scotty, when you decide to act your age, I will be on zhe G Deck. I have finished zhe new analysis on nucleosynthesis zat you requested." He marches off to bus them, and his genuine indignation would have been enough to make Scotty guilty if he had remembered to wipe the chocolate off his chin.

"Look, there's Uhura." Scotty nods towards the woman in red who had argued with Spock the day before.

"Another target? So soon?" Bones comments drily.

"Why isn't she sitting with us? She's not... miffed, is she? Whatever for?"

"Take a wild guess."

Scotty gasps theatrically. "No! About- you know-?" He waggles his fingers, mimicking Spock's pointed ears. "It's all a bit of fun! We don't mean anything by it. Not really." When Bones scowls and Sulu simply looks unimpressed, he sputters, "well, she brought it upon herself! I can't be the only one here morbidly fascinated with her affections for that green-blooded-"

"Doctor Watson!"

A sudden shout makes John jump. The mess hall quiets, several heads turning to stare at their captain in the doorway, his first officer lingering behind him.

Kirk reddens a bit but marches purposefully to John's table. Slowly, the mess resumes its buzzing - an outburst from their captain is a far more serious matter than a lovers' quarrel, but this only seems to involve the addressee.

"Khan is asking for you. Something about a London connection?"

"Captain, I swear, I had nothing to do with those attacks-"

"Not present-day London," Spock clarifies. "The London of your era."

Spock says "your era" as if John came from a barbaric sort of place, with witch-burnings and leeches and rampant disease. He'd give anything to smack that expression off Spock's face, but now isn't the time.

"Of which I'm sure you're an expert," John says coldly. He turns pointedly to Kirk. "What about London?"

"Apparently, the two of you might have a mutual acquaintance. Bastard wouldn't tell me the name. Would you come with us, please?"

"Sure." Not that he has much of a choice.

Bones is resolutely staring at a salt shaker to avoid making eye contact with the captain. Scotty looks positively flabbergasted; he must have thought John really was a bumbling stowaway. Sulu, on the other hand, wears an expression of vindication. He had never really trusted John, and now he has evidence that the doctor could be a terrorist after all.

Rolling his eyes at the lack of support his newfound companions offer him, he mumbles a quick goodbye and follows Kirk and Spock out of the hall.

The panel over Khan's cell is gone today, and the man in question is occupying the same chair from the night before, when John was nearly strangled. John wills himself to be brave, wills himself to face this monster in the guise of his best friend, though he can feel the shell around his own heart beginning to crack.

"Why the restraints?" he asks Kirk, gesturing to Khan's hand- and ankle-cuffs.

"Apparently he tried to assault one of the guards last night. Videotape cut out, but maybe he was messing with the camera too."

Moriarty's doing, no doubt.

"Doctor Watson." Khan greets him with a slow nod. "Won't you come in?"

"I think we'll stay out here, Khan." Kirk answers for John.

"Captain, I believe I called this meeting to speak with Doctor Watson, and Doctor Watson alone," Khan replies icily.

"Look, Khan-" Kirk starts angrily.

"Captain, it's alright," John interrupts. Eyeing the restraints, he continues, "I'll go in and talk to him. Maybe something of use will come of it."

"Close physical proximity may be a more useful condition for interrogation, Captain," Spock interjects. "An increase in psychological equal-footing, if you will."

"Fine," Kirk sighs. "Guard, please."

A guard posted at the end of the corridor lets John in. John is wary this time, searching for any sign that Khan could attack again.

"What's this about London, Khan?"

Khan stretches, systematically cracking his neck, then his knuckles, then his wrists, never taking his eyes off John. He's being sized up again, although he can't imagine what's left to deduce, unless Khan is simply cataloging every way he can possibly kill him.

"Won't you sit down?" Khan gestures towards the seat opposite from him with an eerie graciousness that makes John hesitate.

"Do what you like, Doc, but I'd stay as far from the guy as possible." Kirk, scowling from outside the glass, folds his arms in defiance. Spock does the same, and although John is sure the action is purely subconscious, Khan makes a note of it.

"How cute," he coos. "Tell me, Captain, when you return to Earth do you have to keep him on a leash or do the Terrans simply trust that you have him trained?"

Immediately, Spock drops his arms to his sides. His face takes on a greenish tinge- a Vulcan blush. The muscles in Kirk's jaw tighten.

"London," John says firmly, unwilling to lose the argument to a pissing contest. "You wanted to talk about London."

"Yes. I do." He regards John contemplatively for a moment, then sharply turns his gaze to Kirk and Spock, as lethal and unforgiving as a cobra. "Rather curious marks on your neck, Captain. Did your Vulcan put them there? Can't imagine how he fit that into his schedule, since he spent most of yesterday chasing his Lieutenant."

"Captain-" Spock begins.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kirk growls, but John, for all his inside knowledge, isn't the only one who can see the sloppy patches of concealer coating his neck.

"They passed my cell yesterday. I must admit I find it oddly satisfying to hear a Vulcan apologize."

"Captain," Spock says through gritted teeth, "it is obvious we are not wanted. Khan will not speak if we are present."

"If you try and-" Kirk raises a threatening finger. "Don't you dare hurt him," he snaps. "Whatever you're planning, don't. We'll be right around the corner and if we hear so much as a-"

"Peace, Captain." Khan smiles, and the sight makes John's skin crawl. "No harm will come to him today." He gestures at his cuffed limbs with a shrug.

Begrudgingly, Kirk and Spock leave, and then John is alone with Khan, fighting the urge to bolt from a cuffed man. As ridiculous as his fear may be, John's neck is still sore from the day before, and he has a creeping suspicion that Khan can break out of his restraints if he simply desired to.

"Alone at last, Doctor Watson."

"What do you have to tell me that's so important that you don't want Kirk and Spock here? You know they've got cameras recording everything we say, right?"

"Of course, of course," Khan replies impatiently. "I don't have anything classified to share with you. I've just grown bored of them."

"Bored," John repeats, voice cracking.

"They're so predictable now," Khan sighs, unable to understand why a single word has John at his limits. "Even baiting them doesn't hold the same charm."

"So now you're going to fool around with me."

"That's the idea."

"I don't understand. You tried to kill me yesterday and now you've basically invited me to tea?"

"A man can have a change of heart."

"You don't seem the type to do so."

"We've only just met. There is much you don't know about me."

For once, John says nothing.

"I thought it might interest you to hear," Khan continues, "that I knew a doctor from your time. He worked at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London."

"St. Bart's," John says. "You're joking. St. Bart's?"

Khan raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

It can't just be a coincidence.

"Do you- do you remember St. Bart's? You were there, last I saw you. It was where we met. And you were there, on the roof-"

"Oh God. Not this tedious Sherlock business again." Khan rolls his eyes. "Do you think of nothing else?"

"Think about it! What are the odds? There has to be some kind of significance to this. You're remembering-"

"Once again, I don't know you!" Khan interrupts. "I'm talking about Michael Stamford. A genetics specialist."

John blinks. "What?"

"Doctor Watson, have you heard of the Augments?"

"No, but- what was that about Mike?"

Khan frowns. "You knew him."

"Yes, I- we went to medical school together! He introduced us! He's the reason we were living together."

"Old chum of yours, was he?"

"I don't understand what Mike has to do with any of this."

"Doctor Watson, he created me."

Incredulously, John opens his mouth, then shuts it again with incomprehension. "What?"

"He engineered us."

"Engineered what, exactly?"

"A new race of superhumans. Augments, as we're called. Superior in every way."

"And you think you're one of them." And John wants to laugh because that is completely something Sherlock would say.

"I am one of them." Khan lets out an exaggerated sigh. "I suppose a history lesson is in order. In the early 2000's, a group of scientists got together. They were sick of the violence and destruction humans had created in the world, and they decided together than a new race of humans might not be entirely out of order. Of course, parallels to Nazism made it so they couldn't perform any experiments publicly. With a group of private investors, they set out to make these super-men and -women underground while maintaining respectable public reputations. Your Mike Stamford, as I recall, led a double life as a professor at St. Bart's."

"He was," is all that John can say.

"Traveling all over the world," Khan goes on, "these scientists found the best of the best. The strongest, the smartest, the fastest, anyone genetically mutated just enough to be considered above-average, able to withstand their experiments and worthy of transforming into such a superior being. I'm one of the earliest that were created. A prototype the rest were based on. I may not be as strong as the others, but..." He pauses, scanning the purple bruises on John's neck. "I get by. Even a Vulcan in his prime is no match for me."

"This doesn't make any sense," John says. "I knew Mike Stamford." Good-natured, perpetually content, predictable Stamford, who put mustard on everything, ordered the same Kronenbourg every time they met at the pubs, and was regularly in bed by 11:00.

"Clearly, you didn't. This project- I was his life."

"Surely, if you remember Mike- you must remember who you were!"

"I do," Khan replies simply. "John Harrison. Barrister, married with two children in Richmond. Not sure what happened to the wife and kids after I left, but her father was rich so I expect she got along well enough."

"Are you absolutely sure? You could have been-"

"Will you give up with this Sherlock nonsense already? I have memories of my entire life, and I promise you that you were no part of it."

"I don't believe that!" John exclaims, though Khan's words have cut him deep. "There has to be something- your violin! Did you ever play the violin?"

"Once."

"You had a Stradivarius. A real life million-pound Strad that you took off from someone you met in Cardiff for a few quid. You used to follow me around the flat with it. You were constantly making up silly little songs to pester me, like 'Here's John drinking tea' and "Here's John scowling' and an especially obnoxious one whenever I'd bring home a girlfriend. You had a theme song for Lestrade, another for Mycroft, a ridiculous, high-pitched one for Molly that would make me laugh until I realized how cruel it was. I pointed it out, and you never played it again..."

Khan cocks his head to the side, listening, his expression unreadable.

"Once there was something wrong with your violin. You've never let anyone else hold it before. You'd hide it behind my dresser the second you realized Mrs. Hudson would be going around with a feather duster that day, and you knew she'd never go into my room. I was always tidier than you. But one day, it was broken- you wouldn't admit it, but I think you had relapsed again the night before, and you were too high to realize how tightly you were holding it. But you were busy, and I was there, and you sent me off to get it repaired. Do you understand what that meant to me? During Christmas you left it on the coffee table while you snuck out for a smoke and pitched a fit when Lestrade set his drink down too close. But you trusted me while you were away. Me. You loved it."

John waits. Still nothing.

"I never... I never really liked opera." The scar on John's back is burning. He grips the sides of his chair, fighting the impulse to twist and reach for it. "You loved Puccini, Monteverdi, Wagner... You would play in the living room sometimes, by the window while I read. O Mio Babbino Caro. That one was your favorite. And you would play other things I'd never heard of and you'd look at me when you were finished and ask me what I thought of them and I never-" John shakes his head, clears his throat. "I don't know why, but it was all I could think about after I lost you. Silly things, like how I shouldn't have gotten so upset every time you didn't run to the grocer's when I asked, or gotten cross when you left your things lying about. I should have paid more attention to your music. After a song you'd stop and look at me and I'd just... nod. Brush it off. And one time I caught you, with a look on your face, as if I'd..." John takes a deep breath. "I didn't realize. I didn't understand just how important it was to you until you were gone. I treated it like a trifle."

And this is when John breaks.

The shock, the grief, the frustration, the loneliness- every feeling John's bottled up since he was forced onto a starship crashes upon him now, and then he's reaching for Khan, fists curled into his shirt, praying desperately to see some kind of recognition in his eyes... but there is nothing. Not sympathy, contempt, or even his usual pity. Khan is still silent, still watching, and John wants to scream that he can't be a superhuman if he isn't human to begin with.

"Goddamn you," John snaps, shaking him. "Goddamn you. Are you even listening? Do you have a heart, or did those scientists take that away too?"

Khan is unmoving, inscrutable, and it's absolutely infuriating. John's hands are shaking, his heart hammering in his chest, and they're inches away from each other, and he notices that Khan's lips are slightly parted, and all John can think of is how much he looks like Sherlock-

Suddenly, John kisses him, winding his fingers in his dark hair.

Khan gasps against him, letting out a sound of muffled protest, but John only tightens his grip, holding him still. The chair groans as Khan shifts against his bonds.

"Don't-" Khan growls.

"You remember me, don't you?" John pleads. "You remember us? You have to. Sherlock-"

"I'm not-"

John kisses him again, and this time, to his surprise, he feels Khan reciprocate.

He doesn't dare open his eyes. He tries not to think about Khan's hair, too fine and without Sherlock's curls, and his passive doll's gaze. Khan is nipping at his bottom lip and then he's biting back twice as hard, slipping his tongue into Khan's mouth, hands roving down his chest, beneath his shirt, but Khan starts pulling away and-

"John," he whispers against his skin.

John freezes.

"John," he says again, more urgently, and when John opens his eyes, Sherlock is there, his consciousness fleeting and struggling and thrown asunder.

"...I never told you my first name," John realizes, heart rising with elation. "I never-"

Suddenly, Sherlock convulses, reeling away.

"Sherlock-" John cries out.

"Get your hands off me," he hisses, face contorting with malice. He is Khan again, and John becomes just another Starfleet stranger. "Get away from me," he snarls with such vehemence that John slowly backs away, out of the cell, slamming the door behind him and letting himself slide to the floor.