A/N: Wow, I'm sorry for the delay!
Thank you for the awesome reviews, though!

I have actually been in London for the past week, and then I'm going to visit relatives in Germany.
I don't get much internet so it has also been hard to post anything, whether it's written or not.

Thanks for waiting, and please let me know you're all still there!

Chapter 9: Hour Tube
(the sleeve that the hour hand fits on)

"John?"

John had just been staring. They were blank stares; his features were utterly still, but his mind was terribly cluttered. Cluttered with questions and theories, and the full impact of the "Sherlock Holmes" suicide mystery. It all seemed suspicious in his head, as he lined the pieces up like some complex puzzle; what Sherlock said once he regained his memories, how he acted, as though physically petrified, and the story Mycroft had shared only a day ago.

But it was always the same – just when John thought he was learning more about the man in the tank, he found he was simply egging on the mystery itself.

Stapleton's voice, however, had brought him out of his distanced thoughts, and he quickly looked up to see her hovering over him, eyes slightly narrowed, expression faintly sour. He cleared his throat as she sat down, directing Frankland toward the control panel as she perched herself on a metal chair. She adjusted her figure for a more suitably comfortable position and then faced John face-on. The army doctor swallowed nervously, straightening himself out in impatient expectance.

"John," The woman beside him began, "I'd like to discuss something with you."

John's brow furrowed, and he glanced at the blue tank next to him, catching a glimpse of the way the curled hair swam in the midst of the surrounding water. "Yeah, sure." He agreed simply, and bit the inside of his cheek, awaiting terrible news; perhaps he was fired for interfering, or maybe he was going to "disappear for a while". Who the hell knows with a facility like Baskerville?

"I would like to test 'Chezza's' alertness and physical drive, seeing as how he's been newly updated as of late," She reached a hand back to scratch her neck hesitantly, "I would prefer to have him stay awake for several hours, and I'm afraid I cannot stay with him for so long a time."

John blinked.

"It is your duty to work the night shift, and therefore I thought I would ask you to care for him – to watch him," She took note of John's puzzled expression and quickly restated her proposal, "Look, you don't even have to talk to him, but for some reason he seems more relaxed and controllable in your company, and I just thought –"

"Yes." John confirmed, eyes fixating on the dark woman before him, hands clenched rather tightly, "Yes, I'd be happy to."

She visibly softened, and hurriedly nodded in response, thanking him in a genuine manner and rising to her feet, jogging over to Frankland's position by the control panel, eager to get things started. Her nimble, skeletal like fingers drifted over several multicolored buttons, and with a few taps, the ever-consistent whirring of the electric fields, beneath the man in the tank, came to a halt, and the surface he was stretched out upon slowly rose to the top of the glass chamber.

John watched with the same amount of awe in his expression that had been there on the very first day – the very first time he met and saw the rebirth of Sherlock Holmes. The pale complexion of the being was revealed once more, out of the blue shade of the ever-encaging swampy water, and his entire figure rose forth, eyes shut gracefully.

However, from what John could see, the man on the slab appeared to be in anguish – he seemed pained, agonized.
It was as though the ordeal from only a day ago was still present on his features – in his mind, haunting his thoughts with impossible memories.

"How are we doing this?" John asked with one brow arched in utter curiosity.

Stapleton gestured to the machine controlling the tank's every attribute, allowing Frankland to confidently take over, as she slowly swayed toward John, her lab coat sprawling out behind her like she was some sort of brave hero. John scoffed bitterly to himself, internally shaking his head. She was far from the very thought.

"Doing what?"

John held back the irritable roll of his eyes, stifling both his frustration and his aggravation. This woman was asking for it – her mere presence angered him. She was oblivious to the impact her intellect had on the man she had transformed into a revived corpse, the man she had ruined with her flawed aspirations.

"Please. Don't be coy," John couldn't bite back the sarcasm, "Memories? Or is he going to be drawing a blank on me?"

Dr. Stapleton blinked, cleared her throat while dropping her eyes, and glanced back at the man on the slab, still yet to be awakened. "I've removed the chip."

John struggled to swallow the thick lump that had instantly formed in his throat, taking a moment to compose himself before posing another question, "So, what will he remember? If anything?"

The scientist licked her lips, and then quickly spun on her heel, whirling around to approach the figure she referred to as her "project", much to John's utter outrage. "Only what happened the last time we waked him – your questions, and our little conversation."

John winced in apprehension, and thought back, clenching his fists, desperately sorry for the man currently drenched in blue droplets before him.

"You are merely an object in a trial – an object of which I have complete, and utter, power over. So, it will, in fact, do you well to listen to me."
"I'll have you know, Mr. Holmes, that you are no one at this point in time – nobody. This version of yourself is merely for knowledge – for intellect."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, John fell back in his chair, hard. Stapleton sent him a firm nod and returned to the set-up of immaculately placed controls, glistening and flaring in the artificial light of the lab. He watched as she pulled a lever, and slammed her thumb down on a touchpad, only releasing when she heard a swift click of gears, and a solid sound of recognition.

John sighed, closed his eyes, and sat for a moment, merely listening to the very aura he currently dwelled in.

The shuffling of lab coats. Breathe in, breathe out.
The sound of a door closing; again, and again, and again. Breathe in, breathe out.
The buzzing of a waking machine, emanating from the soft trickle of ever-moving blue water. Breathe in, breathe out.
A deep baritone voice carefully uttering his name: "Dr. Watson."

John lost his breath.

"Surrealism had a great effect on me because then I realised that the imagery in my mind wasn't insanity.
Surrealism to me is reality."
-John Lennon

His eyes opened at an alarming pace and he was gifted with a nearly vacant room. The control panel was left untouched now, and not one scientist was in his midst – not that the fact wasn't relieving. The only other life form presently active in the very vicinity of the lab was the beautiful man on the grey, dull slab; his mystifying, supernova-bright eyes were shining, their color still as unidentifiable as ever. John found himself in a trance. It seemed Stapleton had decided to leave the two of them utterly alone; perhaps she realized her presence was unwanted, undesirable. The snake, apparently, had better things to do.

"Mr. Holmes."

John exhaled; unaware of the fact that he hadn't taken another breath since the moment he laid eyes on a rather wide-awake Sherlock, yet again.

"Weren't there," Sherlock paused, blinking in confusion, "more of you?"

John grimaced at the accusation, "The others are nothing like me. And I'm nothing like them." He felt the need to clarify for the newly awakened man on the slab, eyes narrowing in anguish, "They're horrid – a bunch of no-brained pillocks."

The man laughed a rather deep laugh, that sounded quite hoarse in comparison to his normal tone of voice, but John didn't blame him. He had been dead. The dead don't laugh. At least not frequently. And he couldn't care less anyway – the sound of his amusement was comforting, and John felt as though every time he made the man chuckle, he was doing a good thing, that perhaps he was removing a sin from his list of flawed behavior and replacing it with a mark of pure innocence, rewarded for having given sincere aid to a man in need.

"Do I have longer this time?"

The question caught John off guard, seeing as how he had been lost in thought, merely gazing blindly at the intricately designed irises of Sherlock Holmes' eyes. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, and looked down, his head lolling to the side as he was still lying flat on his back on the cold metal slab, "Can I stay awake for longer this time?"

John swallowed, cringing at the thought of Sherlock believing John was in control of the very situation, when really, he felt just as trapped as the man himself. "I think so."

Sherlock nodded, short and quick, barely conveying any sort of emotion, "Good." He then lifted his head, dragging his torso upwards so he could gaze thoroughly at John's position in the hard, plastic chair, "I enjoy," He paused and began again, "I enjoy talking to you."

John was frozen with disbelief. How could Stapleton ever even think the very words she had used to describe him not long ago?
"He doesn't need comfort. He's part machine, he has no memories of reassurance or sympathy, and he doesn't have a proper heart – he doesn't feel things that way." The woman truly was brainless. She was ignorant to the truth – ignorant to the possibility that she genuinely did fail in her project's progression.

Because she hadn't created a simple machine that appeared as though it were a man.
She had created a man that simply appeared as though he were a machine.

"Dr. Watson?"

John rattled his head in recognition and turned his direct attention to the being staring straight through him, multicolored eyes so very electrifying.

Sherlock smirked slightly and dropped his head, "Dr. Watson, I don't suppose you could do me favor?"

John bit the inside of his cheek in hesitation, "Depends on the favor." He watched as a single droplet of water rolled down the side of the man's cheekbone, having fallen gracefully from a lock of curly brown hair.

"Provide me with some answers."

John winced; oh, how he wished he could. He wanted to – he wanted to so very desperately, but froze under the idea of Stapleton's disapproval.
Because what if, even through her madness, what if she had a point of believing it was wrong to inform him of what he went through?
What if it ruins him further, breaks him, shatters whatever is closest as a substitute to his heart?

John will not – cannot – hurt him.

"I'm sorry. I really am."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, shifting slightly in his position on the slab, his face contorting only briefly into some expression of pain as he did so, "I was inclined to deduce you'd say that. But I watched you think it over," He smiled a sincere, sad smile, "You thought very hard on it, in fact. Much to my genuine surprise - thank you."

John observed, speechless, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly feeling oh-so-very narrow. "You're welcome."
His response was choked, and unattractive, but it satisfied Sherlock, as his expression softened contently.

"Now," The man on the metal surface sighed, smiling grimly, "Get up."

John blinked; once, twice, perhaps even four times. "What?"

Sherlock only shrugged, wincing at the anguish it brought upon him, before returning to a smug onset of features. "I want you to help me."

John arched a brow, "Help you what?"

"Help me walk."

"Walk?"

Sherlock bobbed his head in confirmation, "Indeed. Walk."

The army doctor scoffed in disbelief, leaping to his feet, not because Sherlock had commanded him to but because he was utterly shocked, "I really don't think that's a good idea."

The man narrowed his eyes, as his brow furrowed, "And why not?"

John but his lip reluctantly, "B-because – well, you –"

"Am I confined to this hard, cold slab for my entire stay here, Dr. Watson?"

"No, it's just," John growled, and struggled to inform the man without revealing too much delicate information, "Look, your bones are…different, and they may take some time getting used to. I don't want you to overdo yourself."

Sherlock snorted, and John was really quite surprised the man was so loose, so relaxed; perhaps because he was in John's presence – and only John's presence.
"I'll be perfectly fine, Doctor." Sherlock grunted, "Just get me to my feet."

John bit his lip, and thought it over. How much harm could he do? He merely wanted to flop around a bit on his, most likely, activity-starved appendages.
The army doctor cleared his throat, composed himself, and approached the man carefully.

When the being placed a single, pale hand – soft with slender fingers – onto John's shoulder, he couldn't help but shudder. The man's overall aura was surreal, and only once had John really been able to touch – and even that hadn't lasted long. His grip, gracefully ruffling the top of John's jumper, (of which he was thankful Stapleton still allowed him to wear, seeing as how he was supposed to be on guard – he still had his gun, mind you) was like an electric pulse, throbbing in place as though the man held so much brilliance it was straining to get loose.

One tight uniform clad leg swooped over the edge of the metal slab, eagerly hovering just above the floor as the second mirrored it's movement. John watched cautiously, awaiting any sort of trouble, any panic, any hesitance – but the man merely sat there, gripping onto John as though he were composing himself for a giant leap forward. John inched closer, a hand wrapping itself protectively around the backside of the man's waist, framing his lower spine as a thorough support barrier.

It wasn't climbing off the surface of his tank that was the man's problem, as he had already accomplished it before; it was moving on the ground, the actual action of walking that worried John Watson.

"Alright?" The doctor asked nervously, and the man in his compassionate grasp nodded his head, in what seemed to be full-on confidence.

And, without another second to lose, Sherlock fell to the floor, sliding from the slippery metal beneath him, and onto the gray tile of the laboratory. John swallowed, still observing in concern for the man's health, his manner of being. Sherlock, however, stayed balanced; his knees were slightly bent, protruding outward as he stared at the floor, stared at his pale feet, toes wiggling against the cold ground. John took a deep breath and exhaled long and thoroughly; he wasn't sure how long he had, alone with the man that fascinated him so very much, so he figured he'd better use his time wisely.

"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant."
-Horace

Clearing his throat, he tightened his grip on the man's lower hipbone. "Okay, try to bring one foot forward."

Sherlock glanced up at him, bobbed his head as a confirmation, and lifted one long leg, leaning heavily on John as most of the weight of his body fell onto his opposite appendage. He winced slightly, letting out a hiss, and John could have sworn he heard the shifting of gears, the cringing emanation of metal. When he continued to wobble, even upon dropping his leg back down onto the floor, John let out a sigh and shook his head, "You're going to hurt yourself."

Sherlock abruptly shoved John to the side, and upon the sudden forceful movement, John scrambled backward, losing his hold on the man.
The subject inched his way forward on his own, convinced he didn't need the doctor as a crutch, as his bodyguard, as someone to be sure he didn't fall.
He took another step and instantly lost his balance, knees crumbling below him, as they gave out and sent him cascading to the floor.

But he didn't fall. Not all the way.

The hand was back on his shoulder, another back on his waist, and he was hoisted upward, John Watson having been ready to take immediate action.
No, he didn't need a bodyguard, or a crutch. He simply needed John Watson.

Their eyes met as Sherlock regained his steady posture, and John watched the man with intricate curiosity. So much was hidden behind those unidentifiable, multi-colored irises – each color was like a different story, a different shade resembling a different battle, a different accomplishment.

Even as this man before him, with his wired insides and his metal organs, was supposed to remain blank – no memories, emotions, or feelings – he merely seemed as though he felt more than anyone John had ever laid eyes on, as though he was more.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself." John mumbled audibly, expression fixed on the features of the man before him.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, a brief yet firm nod, in which he dropped his eyes to the ground, and bit his lip. The army doctor then clutched his arm, and guided him down to sit on the metal slab, which took merely a minute, seeing as how he hadn't gotten very far in his walking.

Sherlock dropped steadily down, and John let go, taking a step back to watch desperately as the man brought both his arms to his face, placing them just beside his eyes, to rest on his temples, and below his fringe. Closing the lids to those surreal irises, Sherlock stayed utterly still, as though he were sleeping too soundly, sitting upright and uncomfortable.

John cleared his throat, puffing out a breath of air as he sat back in his plastic seat. "Sorry."

Sherlock didn't move, besides the trembling of his lips, "For what?"

John shrugged, huffing out a faint chuckle, "That it was difficult, I guess."

"Not your fault."

"No. S'pose not."

They sat in silence, an eerie silence, though not awkward, and John simply observed the frail man, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"What did it feel like?" John finally asked, growing curious upon listening and gazing at the figure before him.

Sherlock still didn't budge. "Hmm?"

John grunted, suddenly very nervous, "What did it feel like? Walking, I mean."

Sherlock's eyes opened then, a frown present on his exotic features, as he turned to John with full attentiveness. "Why, because I have solid metal posing as my skeletal system? Or the fact that the gears, serving as my organs, are currently running as though they power me?"

John froze.

No.
How?
No. John hadn't told him.
Stapleton hadn't told him.
No one had told him, had they?

"Oh please," Sherlock responded, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Took me barely five minutes to figure it out."

John's eyes widened in disbelief, "But how-"

"They are inside me, John. I can feel it. I can feel it in my system, coursing through my veins. I can taste the metal, right on the tip of my tongue." John watched as the man shivered and sighed rather stutteringly, "And I can hear the gears, John – it's like someone's opened a clock, revealing its very core, and it won't leave me alone, won't stop pestering; drumming like a drum in the back of my ear."

John grimaced, and swallowed thickly, thinking over the situation with an ever-present hesitance. He couldn't imagine the feeling. He had never thought the idea over entirely – sure, he had asked Sherlock what he felt before, but the description was far from what he had only just given.

"Physically? My eyes burn and my arms ache immensely.
I feel as though my head has been thrown onto a concrete wall over and over again, and my chest is terribly heavy.
Emotionally? I feel nothing."

John narrowed his eyes and exhaled deeply, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Sherlock quirked a brow, "Sorry?"

The army doctor shrugged, "Well, if you knew after the first five minutes, why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell us you knew? Why did you ask Stapleton all those questions?"

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground, swallowed, and glanced up again. "Because I still don't know what happened to me – all I know is that internally, it feels as though I am a lifeless automaton. And, besides," He smiled just briefly, directing the sudden pleasantry John's way, "I had to find out who I could and could not trust."

John raised both brows, biting the inside of his cheek as he listened to Sherlock's words.

"You, Dr. Watson, desired to tell me, although it would break all rules. Dr. Stapleton, well."
He scoffed hatefully, "She decidedly wished to rub the fact in – the fact that I was unaware."

John found himself nodding subconsciously, and he gazed at Sherlock with intent intrigue, completely fascinated, completely lost in the surrealism of his whole manner of being.

"John Watson, of everyone in this very facility, of every person in the world for Christ's sake, you are the only one who has my utmost trust."

"Do you know why people like violence?
It is because it feels good.
Humans find violence deeply satisfying.
But remove the satisfaction, and the act becomes...hollow."

-Alan Turing