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Chapter 3: Sequence

(The sequence of the operation of the
gears and/or hammers and/or shutoff and/or trip levers
of a particular section of a mechanism to produce the correct
result of sound or mechanical operation.)


John was ultimately pleased with the opportunity set before him.

Firstly, he was, in fact, given a place to stay on the testing site's grounds.
Secondly, the food served in the café below all testing rooms, and classified areas, was quite satisfying – at least better than what he was used to.
Thirdly, he was doing something quite thrilling – and John Watson loved the thrill of action, the blood pumping through his veins. It was the adrenaline rush that he loved the most about working here; every time a needle was injected into the skin of the sleeping figure, or a gear was tinkered with, John was on tiptoes.

He was eager. Eager to see what would happen when the time came – the time being, when the corpse would finally reawaken; when the broken clock would finally tick again.

John was counting every second, and he would continue to count every second, every minute, every hour, until sleeping beauty was activated.
For now, he simply observed; alert to everything surrounding him, as was his new job, but he merely did it so that he wouldn't miss a single detail about the continuous process displayed before him.

Dr. Stapleton ordered other scientists about, pointing a finger every which way, sending others flying on her command, white lab coats racing around the room and painting it with mystery. Dr. Stapleton had thoroughly explained the upcoming procedure – not much, but still enough to clearly inform John of her expectations.

Dr. Stapleton slept here. She had little room, not to far down, an office really, where she would occasionally catch a few Zs – only to be woken up in a fright, and eager to make sure her "special project" was still computing. She stated to John Watson that she merely had "to much to worry about", and therefore "lacks in sleep". John had understood, as he was quite the insomniac himself, what with all the nightmares and blistering terrors that haunted his every slumber. She went on to tell the retired army doctor that she had then considered a mercenary for hire, and resulted in his arrival, and so on – the rest was much of which John already knew.

She then got to the more intriguing news.

The man in the blue tank was set to wake two days from now, perhaps earlier.

She was going to run more tests, inject more life cells, finish fixing up his organs, and then set him free. Well, sort of. There's only so free he could be. They would then examine the way he moves, the way he thinks, and the way he feels.

By the time Dr. Stapleton had informed him of this, John was shuddering in excitement, the adrenaline pounding in his veins again, like a drug he couldn't live without. And then he had been officially given the occupation.

He was in charge of the safety of this project; which also, partially, meant; he was in charge of its success. If he couldn't keep the experiment safe, then the man in the tank would lose his chance at another life. Would that mean he would be responsible for the man's death? No, now he was over thinking the situation.

Over thinking everything from the comfort of his new bed, in a small room, with a clean bathroom, and TV. He didn't care if it was small, because for once, he didn't have to deal with the ever-demanding threat of a loaded gun waiting impatiently just beside his bed sheets in the corner of an empty draw.


"We cannot turn the clock back nor can we undo the harm caused, but we have the power to determine the future and to ensure that what happened never happens again."

Paul Kagame


John had been told to get used to his surroundings for the rest of that previous day, which he had fulfilled, and then retired to bed. So, when he woke now, it was clearly his first "real" day on the job. He wouldn't make a fool of himself.

He'd been told by Stapleton that someone would fetch him in the early morning hours, yet no one had done so, so John simply fetched himself. He got to his feet, changed into his uniform (he'd been given a simple vest; a black t-shirt with mere black trousers and black shoes, which he was perfectly satisfied with) and skipped breakfast, instead, washing up and exiting into the white corridors of the testing facility. He was too eager to stroll, so instead he walked, fast-paced – an anxious stride, surprisingly quick for someone of short stance.

He flew past the dozens of vacant doors; their little grey windows revealing only the glow from highly advanced machines, and mechanics. Scientists nodded faintly toward him as he passed them by. He'd made sure to learn the way from his quarters to his designated area, and by now, with all his bottled up excitement, he was nearly there.

He found himself thinking of the man again. This man.
He had been a depressed man, according to Stapleton.

John had thought so, without even having had the privilege to meet the addict; so as smart as he would not simply "overdose" unexpectedly. He had his reasons; John was respectful enough not to question them. Hell, he'd considered the notion several times. It's so easy to do. The suffering is so very prolonged, drawn out, whereas pulling the trigger of a small, seemingly harmless black pistol, held up to one's temple, would pass by in mere seconds. Barely a second at all.
So why go through the process of a slow motioned depression when you could take it all away in a heartbeat – who knew if it would get better, or simply worse.
Why put yourself through it? Why not just end the suffering then and there? Because it's unfair. It's unfair to those who know you, those who care for you.
So when the feeling swarms back again, go to them instead. That's why they're there.

Back when his older sister used to be sober, sober enough to talk at least, she'd told him something valuable, something he would surely never forget.


"John?" His sister tapped lightly on the doorframe.

"Go away." He snapped from behind the closed surface.

His sister chuckled, "John, let me in."

John sighed; he wasn't one to turn down his big sister. She'd give him hell for it in the future. So he got up; he got up and he opened the door. And his sister was immediately ready to draw him in for a hug at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, and swollen cheeks – puffy from his constant rubbing at juvenile tears.

"Was it dad again?"

John nodded.

"What did he do?"

John sniffled, "Yelled again."

His sister pulled him closer, and placed a kiss on his forehead, patting down his short blonde hair with the palm of her hand.
"He's just angry, Johnny."

John nodded again, "I know."

His sister let out a deep breath, as John tucked his chin into the crook of her neck.
"Mum's not getting much better."

John tried to weakly reply, but could only respond with a small, quivering whimper.

His sister continued to weave her fingers through his hair, "Is that why you were hiding?"

John attempted to nod, yet again.

Harry smiled sadly, and pulled him out of her warm embrace, to look him dead in the eyes, "You know what, Johnny?"
She began slowly, "When we're hurt, we try not to hurt other people, those we care about," She caressed his cheek with her thumb, like their Mum always had, "But we focus so much on increasing the distance, that it turns out to be the very thing hurting them in the end."


The memory had been so overwhelming; John had almost missed the door beckoning his arrival. He skidded to a halt, took a deep breath, and grabbed at the handle, tugging the door slowly open, and walking toward the scene before his eyes.

Immediately, the commands of working scientists filled his ears. The smell of something chemically balanced burned in his nostrils, and stung his eyes. The air was oddly cool, a strange frigid sensation, against John's bare arms. And the man in the tank was still there; dark curls spiraling down against his cheeks, as they had yesterday. Today, however, he was raised on an incline – a metal slab – most likely so that the scientists tinkering with him had it easier to work with.

The "project" was ever so pale, skin nearly bleached. John couldn't help wondering what color those eyes were, what color they had been.

His strides slowed as he observed the busy white lab coats. Each held some kind of tool, whether it was a scalpel, or tweezers, or merely a screwdriver. Others held dirtied cloths, or delicate gears and mechanical parts. It was absolutely bewildering, watching them do their work on this man, as though he was some kind of vehicle.

"Dr. Watson!" Dr. Stapleton's voice rang through his ears, and the other scientists looked up for a mere moment, before continuing about their business.

John attempted a nervous smile, which probably had only come out as desperately anxious.

"I see you didn't want to wait." The scientist before him grinned contently, and John went for a nod.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit too eager."

Dr. Stapleton snickered and shook her head, "Oh, John. You can never be too eager."
She ended her statement with a wink, and then gestured toward the tank with an extended hand.

John bobbed his head in confirmation, and followed the woman toward the figure draped beautifully over the metal slab. Once there, one of the scientists, whose fingers had just been fixated over a certain gear-ridden area, turned to John, a bright smile on his face, revealing white teeth which, frankly, shined as bright as his white hair.

Dr. Stapleton still had her arm out-stretched, eager to introduce the two. "John, this is my assistant Bob Frankland. He works closely at my side."

John reached out and shook hands with the pleasantly all-too-happy scientist grinning his way. "Pleasure to meet you."

Dr. Frankland nodded, "Aye, John. I hear you're the new recruit. Be sure you keep this guy safe, won't you?" He flicked his head over to the sleeping body, so very close to where John stood. When John glanced at him again, he was immediately entranced, just as he ever was.

With a bob of his head, John agreed to Dr. Frankland's words, resulting in a smile from the white-haired scientist.


"You have to be like a clock spring, wound but not loose at the same time."

Dave Winfield


Stapleton then led John closer to the figure lying flat on the grey slab, which ultimately worked as a constant reminder that the man before him, this fascinating man, was dead. John's adrenaline surged even further, as he neared the frozen still body, eyes closed, dark hair dripping in the blue water that currently sat beneath him.

"Today we are focusing on enclosing all open wounds. Finishing the mechanics." Dr. Stapleton informed him, and once she had finished, she quickly snapped her fingers and the scientists, constructing the masterpiece, filed away.

John turned to her and arched a brow, to which the woman merely shrugged and faintly shook her head; "I'd like it quiet while I explain the procedure to you."

John nodded with a small smirk, glad that he could count for something more than a mere "security guard". John took a few steps toward the corpse, feeling more confident now that the crowding white lab coats had vanished. Dr. Stapleton trailed behind his every movement, clearing her throat to explain the situation.

"Because Mr. Holmes suffered from a drug overdose, it is not so easy to ensure he is thoroughly constructed in all the right areas."

John nodded, listening intently, and now only a few feet away from the man's subtle expression.

"So, as a result, most of his body has been replaced with metallic substances, and mechanical features."

John found himself wincing at the words. So, what did that ensue? On the outside he would appear to be a normal man, but on the inside, a machine? John neared the being, and took a look at the open area surrounding his torso. He couldn't help the gasp that escaped him; gears of all shades, gold and silver and bronze, sat lifelessly in the heart of this corpse's chest. Organs replaced with smooth metal fragments, lungs replaced with clicking controls, and…

"Where's his heart?" John questioned, eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze back to the man's distant features.

Dr. Stapleton sighed and took a step forward, "Yes. You see, the human heart is a little harder to replicate."

John whirled to face the scientist, eyes wide in disbelief, as she seemed to grimace inwardly. "So what? He just won't have one?"

Dr. Stapleton teetered her head back and forth, and shrugged slightly, "It's tough to say, Dr. Watson. The human heart is a complex thing. He will have a metal substance acting as a heart, but it will not have the exact abilities of one."

John swallowed, and then turned, once again, to the man on the slab. He found himself raising a hand to the being's skin, and once aware he was doing so, he immediately froze.

"You may, John. No shock waves as of now."

John chuckled, "That's reassuring."

Dr. Stapleton grinned pleasantly, and observed as John leaned in to place a few gentle fingers on the pale complexion of the man's forearm. The texture he felt wasn't the feeling that normally emanated off of a human's frail skin. The man was unexplainably cold, and not just because he had no blood flowing through his system, but also because underneath that very same skin, there was several pounds of metal – frail metal; cold, frigid metal. The complexion John's very fingertips sat upon felt oddly soft, too soft to be that of a corpse. His eyes roamed from the man's forearm to his face. For a moment, he had to do a double take. He could have sworn he saw a faint twitch at the corner of the man's lifeless lips. John shook his head slightly and only gazed at the figure so coldly placed on the hard, metal slab. He felt as though the man appeared sad; John's vision twisted his appearance into that of a dejected cringe, eyes closed unwillingly, eyebrows almost furrowed.

"Beautiful, huh?" Stapleton's voice echoed in the small, empty room, and immediately had John springing back to life.

He drew back his hand, cleared his throat and turned to the woman, shooting her a small nod.

She grinned, almost wickedly, and approached the man as well. "He is my creation." Her pointed fingers moved down to weave through the "project's" curly, dark brown, drenched hair. John bobbed his head up and down, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the same room as this proud scientist.

He still couldn't decide. Was this wrong? Turning a dead man into a machine in order to bring him back to life? There were the benefits, and then there were also the faults. He would live again, back in the world like he never left, except he would notice the differences, because he would be all machine – his innards replaced with gears and solidified, marble metal. But maybe he would get to see his family again, bask in the sunlight he would miss if he were under the ground. Then again, perhaps it wouldn't be right. Perhaps they had already moved on. John couldn't wrap his head around it, and before he could attempt to anymore, he was interrupted by a sharp cold voice.

"Dr. Stapleton, kindly remove your hands."

Both John and the scientist whirled around to take in the sight of a tall, rather intimidating man. His eyes were narrow, his skin creased at their corners – as though he was always seemingly angry. He was only slightly big-boned, however hardly, and he wore quite the appealing dark grey, striped suit, with a tie, a shade of a faded red. In his right hand, he leaned on a black umbrella, and overall John immediately got three words: wealthy, classy, and government.

Dr. Stapleton momentarily scowled and let out a long sigh, "Mycroft."

John arched a brow, and fixed all his attention on this "Mycroft" character, as he came further into view, approaching their position next to the man on the slab, just above the blue tank.

"Although I do not consider this thing my brother, it is still unsettling to watch you card your fingers through his curly locks." The man's tone of voce was menacing, mocking, and John watched as he ultimately made Dr. Stapleton feel like a tit. John cleared his throat, stiffening at the word "brother", and Stapleton instantly glanced his way and then toward the newcomer.

"Sorry, John." She huffed and shook her head at this "Mycroft".
"John Watson, meet Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The brother of Project Chezza."

Mycroft bowed his head intelligently at John's gaping expression, and then neared the being above the tank of blue liquid. John observed the man's features. He seemed sad, disappointed, conflicted. Perhaps, sad that his brother had died so young, perhaps disappointed he had been turned into a machine, and perhaps conflicted by the question of: Is this still my brother?

"When do you plan to resurrect it completely?" Mycroft asked, his eyebrows raised in suspicion. John winced at the use of "it".

"By the look of things, we just might have everything ready by tomorrow – early morning." Dr. Stapleton clarified, and John was instantly on edge. He was all too eager to hear this man speak, and see him in action; watch as he welcomed life back into his mind again.

"Fine. I will be there." Mycroft confirmed, took one last look at the man on the slab, blinked, took a deep breath, and then slowly turned away and toward the exit.

"Why don't you just admit it?" Dr. Stapleton called out after him, and John narrowed his eyes, watching the two of them intently.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "Admit what, Jacqui?"

"That you're not just showing up to keep everything in check. That you're actually just showing up to see him again." Stapleton said the words in all seriousness, one hand extending to point at "her creation's" lifeless body, sprawled out on the metal slab.

Mycroft didn't respond to her statement. He simply said his farewell, and exited out of the large laboratory doors.

John attempted to swallow the knot in his throat, but was caught unprepared, ultimately resulting in a strained cough. This caught Stapleton's attention, and she was brought back into reality, spinning around to face John once again.

She shook her head and huffed, "He's all too proud to admit he misses him."

John arched a questionable eyebrow, "Why's that?"

Jacqui laughed, "It's just the way he is. It's the way Sherlock was too."

John cocked his head to the side, glancing over at the frozen still, so pale, so thin, body, "And how's that?"

Dr. Stapleton chuckled sadly and sighed, "Well, the two of them don't care for sentiment, for emotions. It's just not their thing."

John scoffed and smirked slightly, "What do you mean?"

The scientist shrugged, "Well, Sherlock – he was a self-proclaimed sociopath."

John's eyes widened, "Interesting."

Dr. Stapleton nodded and gently swayed over to the small control panel in the corner of the room. She tapped one of the glowing buttons and John watched as the slab "Chezza" was sprawled out on lowered gracefully, bringing the figure back down into the blue water swashing to and fro below him. Then for a moment, the liquid flickered, flashed and then fell utterly still. Shock waves, John presumed.

Dr. Stapleton returned to John's side, and shot him a weary smile, "I'm going to grab a cuppa." John bobbed his head up and down; understanding now was his time to stay focused on his own task at hand. "I'll be up again soon. So will the others. We are going to fix him today, so that by tomorrow morning, we will have life."

Her statement caused John to jolt slightly. Life. They would have life.

She sent the retired army doctor a soft smile, and left the way Mycroft Holmes had. Silently, and rather quickly.

So, once again, John Watson was left alone with his ever-conflicted thoughts.


"Don't watch the clock; do what it does. Keep going."

Sam Levenson


Mycroft sighed as he thought of his brother reawakening.

It wasn't right. It wasn't genuine. It wasn't human.
But when was his brother every rightfully human?

Mycroft smiled gently, remembering the experiments in Mummy's garden, kitchen, sometimes even on their father's bed.
His brother always got beat pretty hard for those ones.

He remembered how his brother used to plead for Mycroft to take him to the morgue or to the graveyard, eager to study the dead and observed the unlawful.
Mycroft had almost always turned him down. He inwardly cursed at himself; why did you always turn him down?

He hadn't known his brother, he wouldn't say his name, was unhappy.
He hadn't known he was depressed.

He didn't know about the bullying in his brother's early days, or the drugs, or the excess smoking.

He'd always known about the loneliness though. His brother had always been lonely; he hated people, hated interaction, and hated emotions.
That was partially Mycroft's fault. He taught his brother how to not cry, and how to not feel.

He had turned his little brother into a full-fledged, high-functioning sociopath, and he hated himself for it.
But what was he to do? His brother was dead. He was dead.

No ridiculous government "project" would change that, even if they did have his little brother walking around like a mechanical zombie.
That thing they are experimenting with is and never will be his brother.

His brother was never made of gears or controls or mechanics; his brother was warm, bled like a normal person, functioned like a normal person (most of the time).

It wasn't like Mycroft wanted this.

He despised the fact that his brother hadn't wanted a funeral or a viewing.
He despised the fact that his brother gave up his remains to science, to something he would never even come to face in the after-life.

Until now, of course. That volatile scientist was poking him, prodding him, tweaking him; turning him into her own personal robot.

He sighed again, I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm so sorry.