The door was immediately opened, revealing a tall, well-built full- they came in the same body types as humans- dressed in camouflage baggy pants- deliberate, unlike John's, and a white shirt in the "wife beater" style, as Sherlock had heard it described. His robotic body had been molded in a way that, were he only visible in silhouette, he would have appeared to have muscular arms. As it was, however, that was simply the way his body had been formed, since fulls did not have muscles.
A pair of soft brown eyes looked them up and down. Sherlock could very nearly see the full's thoughts turning, assessing them and determining who they were and why they were there. It was not until the head cocked to the side, making the grey hair gleam slightly in the dim hallway, that he realized that unlike the fulls with which he was familiar, this one had not come from someone whose body had been donated; there were jagged marks on the lowest part of the neck where the covering made to resemble skin was molded into the metal body. (In one of the books he had read when he was younger, Sherlock had discovered that fulls were given human faces to make it easier for people to accept them, but for some reason, the face always had to match the memories or the android would not operate correctly. Men and women whose heads had been harvested- as in all things, there was a black market for parts to create fulls and partials- instead of carefully removed in a laboratory always bore a defect on their heads)
When he spoke, the android's voice was soft, the accent closer to John's than Sherlock's. Its words were light and spoken with almost no trace of inflection, which was odd. Fulls' voices and speech abilities ought to rival other humans', but this one's sounded close to an advanced recording.
"John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, appointment at six o'clock in the morning- arrival time: five fifty nine, early. Excellent. Come in, gentlemen."
With that, the android spun on his heel and disappeared into the slightly brighter area beyond the door.
"John, why-"
His question was cut short by the pained expression on John's face as he stepped through the doorway. Sherlock followed quietly, making sure to stay only a step behind the partial. There was something else going on; he could feel it.
The Closet, as everyone called The Custodian's room, was the same as it had been every other time John had come: empty. Fulls had little to no feeling in their bodies, were only slightly aware of changes in temperature and often felt uncomfortable in luxury- which was anything other than the floor; even simple chairs with slight padding tended to make them nervous. As non-living creatures, they did not need to eat or bathe, so there was no reason for them to have kitchens, lavatories or- or anything at all, other than a ceiling light and a door in the far wall which lead to the examination room. In the case of The Custodian, the room itself was more for the privacy of guests than for the android himself. (Fulls hated being called "it" and took on the sex of the person whose memories they used and faces they wore)
He and Sherlock were ushered in and told to sit down wherever they felt comfortable, which wound up being side by side against the far wall. Once they seated, their host sat down across from them.
"What is it you need from me, John Watson? In all these years, you have only come to me for the mandatory, routine checkups and a few times for adjustments, but you have always come alone."
John nodded, clamping down on the bile that was rising in his throat and making threats to come up farther.
"Right now, I need a full set of clothes for Mr. Holmes, including shoes and outerwear, as well as some adjustments made to my... equipment."
The android's forehead wrinkled as his brows pulled together.
"You were here..." he paused and closed his eyes, undoubtedly going through his memories- which he could label and read like folders, "four months ago for adjustments. Has something happened to cause the parts to move- any trauma or extensive use?" John shook his head, which seemed to upset The Custodian. "This is quite strange, Mr. Watson. I will need to do a full-body exam before I make any adjustments."
Again, John nodded. As much as he hated them, he knew that it was important to have an exam before any adjustments were made. Considering how long he had been a partial, he ought to have gotten used to them by this point, but he had never been particularly comfortable with people touching him, and after being injured, which left him scarred and incredibly tender, his distaste for touch had only grown.
"I will send Mrs. Hudson to take Mr. Holmes' measurements once she has finished her rounds. It would be best, then, Mr. Holmes, for you to return to the rooms while I take a look at Mr. Watson."
John cast a glance to the side and immediately saw the repressed anxiety on his companion's face.
"If I might?" he asked, waving a hand between himself and the full. "Mr. Holmes is unfamiliar with the way things are run in Baker Street and has only just arrived. Perhaps it would be better for him to stay, if it won't interfere?"
The android considered it for a moment, cocking his head in a way that made John's heart ache, before eventually nodding his head.
"Very well, Mr. Holmes shall accompany us."
"Ah, that wasn't what I-" John started to say but cut himself off. Arguing with The Custodian was futile, and wasting his time lead to far worse things than an irritated android. He sighed, then got up, groaning at the sudden ripping pain in his leg. The damn thing always acted up in the morning, and spending time on the floor had not helped. "Best be going, I suppose," he said, his voice hoarse, and held out his hand.
He saw the trepidation on the tall man's face and smiled slightly.
"It'll be fine."
Four months had passed, so it had been four months since he had been naked in front of someone else- the run in with Mr. Holmes not counting. Getting and being naked had never bothered him, so taking off his clothing caused him very little embarrassment, though getting on the examination table always made him feel a bit like an animal. Once he was seated, Les- The Custodian- came over and took his vitals. When they came back within the normal range, John found himself being gently pushed back. Taking that as a cue to lie on his back, he wriggled a bit until his entire body was flat on the table. The room was cold, so he was thankful for The Custodian's decision to cover his "natural" side, genitals included.
As always, John allowed himself to drift off at this point, letting his mind go where it pleased as his body went through the unpleasant process of being pulled, pushed, poked, prodded and squeezed. He vaguely hoped that he was able to remain in this disassociated state when his parts were tightened, though that had never happened before and seemed unlikely to happen now.
Perhaps the knowledge that Mr. Holmes was there would keep him quiet, would stop the screams from forming?
Sherlock sat in the corner of the room, his long legs resting straight out and his back leaning against the wall. This second room was only about five meters wide but twenty long, so there was plenty of room between the table where John was lying, The Custodian fiddling tinkering about with the partial's hip, and him.
Despite, or perhaps because of, the near complete darkness in the room, he found it peaceful. John's breathing was steady and almost inaudible, and sound of the full's gentle tapping on John's non-human parts was like an orchestra of only percussion.
He could have sworn the song it was playing was one he knew.
Lestrade's grin, teeth white against dark skin.
"Come on, mate. We'll be fine; it's just another tour, just another round of driving this old tank around."
The sound of Hounds snarling.
A body ripping apart.
Scars across a familiar face.
Tears pooled in his eyes.
"Run, damn you! Get out of here, you son of a bitch! I won't forgive you if you die."
His own voice, calling out.
A single vein in his superior's purple face, pulsing as he screamed.
"You're not worth your feed... direct orders... idiot... court martial... useless skull... disgusting..."
The prick of a sharp pin in his breast.
A medal proclaiming his valor.
His bed, so cold, so soft.
Nightmares of memories.
Or were they memories of nightmares?
Murray's dying face.
His mother weeping on his father's grave.
"Make us proud."
Lestrade's eyes crinkling with laughter.
Now narrowed in suspicion.
Wide with anger, accompanying a screaming voice.
His own voice, the voices of the men in his company.
Dodging nurses and doctors and tearing his stitches, his unimportant wounds.
Carrying home the evidence of his best friend's life.
Honourably discharged for psychiatric and physical instability.
Again, crying, Lestrade's grin dancing in his palms, a trail of blood spelling "Doctor" in script.
His mind awoke from the force of his own screams.