Please Note: this story contains some science fiction elements including a human with mechanical parts. It is not graphic, but does contain a very brief scene of suicidal ideation when the aforementioned character doubts their humanity. I am not really knowledgeable about steampunk, but on a very basic definition that may be what this is (if you know, please enlighten me).
Please, join me, and consider... What If: Sherlock Holmes was a mad scientist?
John Watson woke to find a strange man leaning over him and a large machine humming above him, ripping him open. Every part of his body was on fire with pain, and he screamed from the agony of it. He saw the eyes of the man above him go wide behind the large goggles he was wearing. The stranger was also wearing a long, white lab coat stained with blood, and in his gloved hand he was holding something that looked like the switch to the giant machine which was causing him so much pain. Watson was still crying in pain as the man leaned closer.
"Stop moving!" he snapped. "You need to lie still!"
Watson felt something pinch his neck, and then the man was holding him down.
"I am sorry," he said, much more gently than before. "You were not supposed to wake up. Do not be afraid; the pain will all be over soon."
Watson stared up at him, very much afraid, as the world fell back into darkness.
When Watson next woke, he found he was tied down, but the pain had lessened into a dull throbbing. Something wasn't right, and it made him panic, especially since the large machine was still right beside him. "Help!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Please! Someone!"
"It's alright," came a voice from beyond him, and Watson realized it was the stranger. "Stop yelling. I just saved your life, you know, so maybe try 'thank you,' instead of 'help,' why don't you?"
"What are you? What have you done to me?" Watson demanded. "And what the hell is that thing?"
"That thing is the tool that I used to save your life, so don't be afraid of it. I am the man who has saved you, so you're welcome. I'm afraid I was also the reason your life was in jeopardy, but that is neither here nor there. Your life is saved now regardless."
"What happened? Who are you?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to discover new ways to help people like I've just helped you. You will see what I mean when I let you up, but for now I need you to lie flat for a little while longer. And to answer your question, there was an explosion. I'm afraid one of my experiments was the cause of it. I left the gas on when I stepped away for a moment, and you were injured in the blast. Your wounds were dire, sir, and the doctors at the hospital would not have been able to save you. I stole you from them; I was sure I could cure you here in my lab. I'm afraid that makes me a wanted man, but at least the cure has worked. I have put my own liberty on the line and made myself a kidnapper to save you, so don't be so depressed that I saved your life, hmm?"
"Mr. Holmes… what will I see when I rise from this bed?"
"Your arm is mostly gone."
"Mostly?"
"Yes. Mostly. I'd there's about… oh, maybe twenty-five percent of your own flesh and blood left. What? Why do you look so upset? Your shoulder had already been torn to shreds by something else. That wasn't my fault, you know. I doubt you even had full control of your own fingers anyway, judging on how the scar tissue looked. You'll be happier now that I've replaced them, I assure you."
"Re-replaced them?" Watson stuttered.
"Yes. Like I said, these new fingers will suit you just fine. You'll see. Oh, and speaking of mangled flesh, I took the liberty of fixing your leg, too, even though my explosion hadn't injured it as badly as it did your arm. And let's see… oh, yes! I'd nearly forgotten. I replaced your heart."
"My… heart?"
"Yes. Come now, don't look so panicked. It's simple, really. Scientists vastly overestimate the value of a person's heart, you know All it does is keep your blood circulating; a mechanical one works just as well. It's the mind, er, what's your name? Doctor Watson?"
"Yes…"
"Well, Doctor, it is the mind that matters when it comes to the body. The brain, the synapses, the consciousness. Life depends on the mind, not the heart. Not any of the rest of the body. Body parts can be replaced, but the mind can't. You have to keep them alive, of course." He took Watson's head in his hand, turning it to look to his right. "That machine," he elaborated, "did just that. While I replaced your heart, I had it continue supplying blood to all your organs, else you would not be alive now. But really, doctor, I knew that you would be just fine. As long as your mind was undamaged, I could put the rest of you back together."
"You replaced my arm…"
"Yes. Do keep up, Doctor. As a man of science I'm sure you understand these things."
"What did you do to my eyes…"
"Oh, that. Not eyes, Doctor, just one of them. There was some shrapnel in one of them, and so I gave you an improvement. You'll like it, I promise."
"How did you do all this? Did you perform the surgeries?"
"No. Like I said, this machine did all the work. I created the parts and programmed the machine, but I didn't perform the actual procedures. To replace your heart, see, I simply set it up. I could have left to get a cup of tea if I wanted to, the result would have been the same."
There were tears on Watson's face, but only coming out of one eye. "What have you done to me?" he cried bitterly.
Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes, annoyed. "Saved your life. We've been over this at least three times now. 'Thank you,' is what I'm still waiting to hear."
"What am I?" Watson wondered aloud. "Am I still human?"
Holmes huffed in frustration. "Please, Doctor, I assure you that your immortal soul is yet unblemished. Were it not, you would not yet be conscious on this earth. As it is, if the good Lord has issue with the modifications I have made, he should bring the matter up with me, not condemn you."
Watson looked at him, his gaze half-pleading and half-anger. "You should have let me die! I did not ask for this!"
"No, of course you didn't," Holmes replied flippantly. "That is what emergency surgery is: done in emergencies. I doubt you ever stopped and asked a soldier if you could please hack their limb off to save their life."
"I… how did you know that?"
"You were an army medic, Doctor. Of course you had to amputate limbs. You're lucky, I think, that your own wasn't taken off. If it had been, I wouldn't have been able to help you and restore the movement in your fingers."
"No, I meant how did you know I was in the army at all?"
Holmes waved his hand through the air dismissively. "Oh, that. It's simple really. I knew from the moment I saw you." He gave Watson the list of deductions he'd made that told him Watson was an army doctor wounded in Afghanistan. "And so you see," he finished, "it is quite elementary."
"And what color are my wrists now?" Watson asked sadly.
"Still pale, on your right side," Holmes answered literally. "Your new wrist on the left is more uniform with your hand. Don't worry, as your tan fades you'll look very normal, I promise."
"May I get up now?" Watson asked, tugging at his bonds without much force.
"No. I apologize, but I need you to be still for a few hours yet. I promise, when the new parts have cemented themselves in your body, I will let you up post haste."
"Cemented themselves?"
"Yes. That's the key to all of my experiments, Doctor. I don't know how no one else has realized it, but it is diamond dust, Doctor. Diamond dust, when applied to mechanical body parts, binds it to the existing body structure. Of course, it's more complicated than that, but I've discovered diamonds, when ground into a powder, are as close to a miracle in medicine as we will perhaps ever find. So congratulations, doctor," he said with a small smile. "As a carbon based life form, you were already made out of stardust. Now, you are made out of diamond dust as well."
"You're cracked," Watson said. "What is really going on here?"
"I've told you," Holmes sighed. "I put you back together."
"Have I been kidnapped? Are you going to kill me?"
"If I wanted you dead, Doctor, I wouldn't have used my time and resources to save your life. I realize you are likely still processing this, but don't be dense."
"Please, just kill me now. Don't do this."
"I am not going to kill you. Stop saying so. Here, let me prove it to you. I have added a bit of a perk to your new eye." Holmes went somewhere behind him that Watson couldn't see, and a moment later the lights went out.
It was only then that Watson realized that the room was an enclosed space, and the lights were electric, not gas. More interestingly, he could see. He thought that his eyes were simply adjusting to the light, but no, there was no light here. With one eye, he could see nothing, but with the other, well, he could see. Not very well, but enough that he could walk around if he wanted. It was as if the world was a black and gray painting.
The lights came back on. "Do you believe me yet?"
"How did you do that?"
"Science, Doctor. I promise you. There is nothing unnatural about it. One day, none of this will be odd. One day, the world will accept the kind of science I use. For now, I will content myself with helping those I can. Like you, Doctor. How is the pain?"
"Not bad."
Holmes nodded. "I suppose I should ask if you need anything."
"Strangely enough, I feel alright," Watson said. "Maybe some water? Though I'm not terribly parched."
"Of course you're not. I ensured you were properly hydrated. Here." He supported the back of Watson's head with his hand, tilting it upwards and holding a glass of water to his lips. "I promised you the pain would fade," he said as he did so. "I'm glad it has, but I fear you will be very weak for a while. Rest, now, and so will I. I've been on my feet fixing you for a long time now, Doctor."
"I know what that's like," Watson sighed. "I… Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes?"
"I know you. I've heard your name. You're wanted for more than just kidnapping me."
"I am. My experiments in the laboratory weren't quite… authorized. But I did not mean to cause an explosion. You must believe that. I did not mean for you to be hurt. I'm not a bad person, only performing experiments the world is not yet ready for. What were you doing in the hospital, Doctor? Not working, I hope. You wouldn't have been well enough for that."
"No, not working, but I was looking for work. I can't afford to live in London for much longer, not without finding somewhere cheaper or finding a roommate."
"Where is your family living?"
"I have none."
"Oh. My apologies. I know I can be insensitive sometimes, Doctor. Being a wanted man, I'm afraid I don't socialize much."
"What will happen to me?" Watson yawned tiredly.
"You will walk away from here and live your life. If you choose that I am, as you so eloquently put it, cracked, you may turn me in. The police, I am sure, would be grateful to you for telling them my location. But I want you to know I've never been cruel, Watson. I may be wanted for illegal experimentation on animals, but I didn't mangle any of them, didn't do any of those things they thought I did. Perhaps one day science will be done without experimentation on animals, but I've not yet been able to find a way. I am always as humane as possible, I assure you. At this point I've likely done more for the animal kingdom than I've done for humanity."
"It's okay," Watson sighed. "I believe you. I won't be turning you in. After all, you could be doing all sorts of terrible things to me, but you're not. Not yet, anyway. If that changes, all bets are off."
"Fair enough. Rest now, I can see you're tired. I am going to loosen your restraints now, but do not get up."
Watson's eyes fluttered shut. He was, indeed, very tired. "Please don't kill me," he sighed.
"I will not," Holmes said, monitoring Watson as he fell asleep. He sighed when the Doctor nodded off. "'Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for saving my life.' Would that really have been so hard to say?"
When John Watson woke, he was free from his bindings and relatively free from pain. He rose slowly, afraid to look down at himself. He was naked, but there was no one around, and he was afraid of using the new arm. He let it dangle limply at his side, and the sheet that had been covering him fell away. There was a mirror on one of the walls, and Watson stood in front of it, examining his body as if he'd never seen it before.
His arm didn't look that bad, he decided, and he looked down at it to see it with his own… eye. And with the other, too, but he wasn't sure he could claim that one as really his. The skin color on his arm looked good, and it could certainly pass for a humans. He touched it with his real fingers and it was hard, his fingers unable to press very far. It was also a bit colder than real skin should be, but overall not that bad. Slowly, he raised it, and it felt normal. He flexed each finger, not feeling pain.
He leaned in close to the mirror, looking at his shoulder scar. It was still ugly, but it wasn't really hurting him. Neither was the scar on his leg. He was standing straight, like he had never been shot. He hadn't felt this well for a long time. He laid his real hand over his heart, feeling it's steady, constant beat. Was it actually possible that it wasn't his own flesh beating in his chest?
Hesitantly, he reached out with his new hand, touching the mirror. He could feel the texture, just not very well. He touched the wood of the mirror's frame, and the same was true. The fingers worked, but he didn't have the same sense of touch like he had with his normal fingers. Looking at them closely, he found that he had no fingerprints, either.
His new eye was slightly darker than his real eye, but it wasn't very noticeable. Overall, he decided that he didn't look that bad. No one who saw him would know immediately that something was wrong. Too bad it was all going to waste. He found a change of clothes that had been left out for him, dressing slowly. He might as well be dignified about it.
He then looked around the lab, finding a vial of acid that looked like it would do the job he was wanting. He filled a syringe, screwing his eyes shut and placing it against his skin.
"If you are entirely convinced that you are no longer human," came the voice of Sherlock Holmes, "then do it, and may the good Lord have mercy on your immortal soul. But if you think there is a chance, even the slightest of chances, that I am right and you are wrong, then put it down. Please." His voice broke with his last plea, and Watson found he didn't have it in him to refuse. He didn't really want to die, he just didn't want to live in the world knowing he wasn't quite human. He pulled the syringe away, and in an instant Holmes had snatched it from his hands.
In the next moment, the strange scientist was hugging him. "I'm sorry," Holmes murmured. "I had no idea you would be so affected. Please, don't consider something like that again. You're still human; it's just science. I promise."
"I suppose," Watson sighed, "that even if I am not, I may as well live out the rest of my life as well as I can."
"Doctor, please realize something and never forget it. At no point were you ever dead. I am not a miracle worker, it only seems that way. I could not have brought you back from the dead. I could not have restarted your organs. After a few seconds? Maybe. Not after you are dead. I saved your life, but I did not create your life. There is something about the spark of life that no man can replicate, nor would I try. If the way you must think about it is that you may as well live now that you are alive then so be it, but please try to understand me. All I wanted was to help you." Holmes released him, peering at him intently. "Come, let's get you home."
Watson shook his head. "I don't know where that is."
Holmes frowned. "I know you said you don't have family, but where are you living now?"
"In a hotel. By now, I'm sure they think I've skipped out on the bill and have thrown my things into the street."
"Oh! Speaking of your things, I have the watch and the journal that were in your jacket when the explosion happened. I will get them for you. I did not find your purse, but I will gladly give you what you need to find a new place to stay for now."
"How? Are you funded?" Watson asked curiously. "Being a wanted man must make it considerably difficult to earn an income."
"It does," Holmes confirmed. "I have several rich patrons who send me funds in exchange for what they think I make: electric toys, cream for their joint pain, magic tricks to impress their friends, and other things like that. The rich are too easily pleased. They don't know what I'm doing here. They have no idea what wonders will come from this lab."
"And where are we?"
"Underground. Under London, to be specific. This isn't the only room I have; there is a small system of tunnels that allow me to have several laboratory spaces here. As you can imagine, my experiments require my spaces to have proper ventilation, and thus the vents and tunnels."
"How was this place constructed?"
"It is a long abandoned safe space for government officials during an emergency. Please, don't ask how I came to inhabit it; it is a long story that involves a relative I have in government and few, well, not quite entirely legal negotiations."
"But where do you live?" Watson asked.
"In a flat above the tunnels. My landlady knows what I do, and she doesn't ask questions or give me away. I keep the drapes closed and use a disguise when I go out. It's… not an easy life, but it is the one I have forged for myself. I may not ever see the world using my research for good during my own lifetime, but my one wild and gleeful hope is that one day they will. One day, all peoples will benefit from the little notes I have taken here. But, I am rambling. Come, let's get you out of here."
"I'll help you," Watson blurted out.
"What?"
"Well," Watson contemplated aloud. "What else am I going to do? I have no family, no friends. Those who know me also know of the ways in which I was wounded. How am I supposed to explain the fact that I'm reborn? I'd have to start a new life. And what then? How could I ever marry a woman in good conscience, knowing what I am? What would I tell her? 'Have no fear my dear, the iciness and stiffness you feel when you hold my hand and the metallic clicking you hear in my chest are all perfectly normal for men made out of metal."
"You can have a normal life," Holmes insisted. "Don't despair. Men have cold hands all the time. You are a doctor; if you tell your wife your heartbeat is normal she will believe you."
"Or I could stay here with you; I have a feeling you need all the help you can get. I may not understand everything, but you have converted me: I am now a believer in your cause and will help you see your work completed. If you'd like to consider being friends, I mean."
Sherlock Holmes considered that. "I've never had a real friend before," he murmured. "I'm not sure I'm up to the task."
"Of course you are. Everyone needs someone to depend on, Mr. Holmes. We're both men alone in the world… at least you are. And I am now as well. After all, there would be questions. Where did I go after the explosion? Who treated me? Why am I able to walk like my leg was never shot? They would take me to a laboratory of their own and dissect me to find out what you'd done to me. I would be a lab rat for the rest of my life. Because you are right, Holmes. The world is not ready for anything like this. I certainly wasn't."
"Very well," Holmes conceded. "So long as you are aware you are not my prisoner. You are free to leave at any time. I'm not a man who deserves to be admired, so don't try. I'll only end up disappointing you. Oh, and I play the violin. Will that bother you?"
"Only if you play excellently."
"Well then it won't be a problem," Holmes said flippantly.
Watson grinned, laughing very slightly at Holmes' bravado. Holmes grinned, too, and he suddenly had a good feeling about this.
Sherlock Holmes was woken by the cool, metal hand of John Watson covering his mouth. He opened his eyes quickly, but he didn't panic. He'd only known John Watson for about six months, but he trusted him. There had been a stretch of time early on when he'd thought the Doctor's offer of friendship had been a false one meant to deceive him, but he'd learned that wasn't the case. John Watson was a good friend, a true friend, and Holmes was certain that his trust in the doctor wasn't misplaced. Whatever the reason he was being woken up like this, it wasn't because Watson was betraying him.
"Get up," Watson whispered, "and be quiet. I think they've found us."
Holmes nodded, and Watson removed his hand. Holmes rose, quickly dressing by moonlight and grabbing the emergency pack Watson handed to him. Watson was wearing one, too, and was already set to go. It was dark, and if the official forces were coming after them it was too dangerous to light a candle. So, Watson took Holmes' hand in his human one, and led him through the flat and down into the tunnels just as they heard the police begin to pound on the door. Mrs. Hudson, they knew, would hold her own against their questioning, but it would be best if they disappeared for a while.
"How did you know?" Holmes whispered as Watson led them through the dark laboratories.
"Couldn't sleep," Watson whispered. "I got up for some water, and I saw them staking out the flat. Remember how I told you I'd thought one of my old friends, Mike Stamford, recognized me? He was there, speaking to them."
"They know I kidnapped you from the hospital you and think I'm holding you hostage, I'm sure," Holmes said. "They are here to rescue you."
"Too bad for them, then," Watson murmured. "Where are we going?"
"Out the East entrance. We'll head for the train station and get out of London for a while."
Watson led them there, and the two of them were soon on a train heading towards Dartmoor.
"One of my most generous patrons has a place for me there," Holmes explained after they were safely tucked away in a private train car. "His name is Sir Charles Baskerville, and he has a laboratory for me in the basement of Baskerville Hall. It's not as good as the one in London, but it will do until it is safe to return."
"And if the police continue to pursue us?"
"We will figure something out. I have other patrons, other laboratories. They're not even all in England, Watson. I copy my work meticulously, and have copies of my notes spread everywhere. Certainly at least one copy will survive for the future. Someday, wealthy ladies will give up their diamonds to help those in need. One day, cripples will walk and blind men will see in the dark. Even if my research gets lost, they'll figure it out again. I'm sure of it. Thank you, by the way. For tonight, I mean."
"Of course. After all, if it weren't for me still being kidnapped they wouldn't be searching for you as vehemently. If they catch us, I doubt they'll ever believe I stay with you willingly. Unless," he teased, "I'm not? Have you hypnotized me so I'll be your lab rat forever?"
Holmes rolled his eyes. "You agreed to let me perform that experiment on you," he said, referring to an incident that had happened in the past week. I reconstructed your eardrum and your hearing is just fine. If I had the power to hypnotize you, I would be in a different profession. And speaking of, if I wasn't a scientist I think I would be a detective, and I may just get the chance in Dartmoor to test that theory. My patron has an interesting little problem, and I think I may be able to utilize the science of deduction to come to a conclusion about it." Holmes told Watson about the supposed curse of the demon hound of the Baskervilles, and Watson agreed that while they were there they should look into it.
That was how they ended up uncovering a devious plot to kill Sir Charles and take the Baskerville fortune. In the end, they had Jack Stapleton arrested, but not without compromising their own hiding place and fleeing once again. Nevertheless, both enjoyed solving the mystery, and from then on they were detectives when they could be, solving mysteries wherever they happened to be in the world. It worked out well for them, and for two years they traveled the world, moving from laboratory to laboratory and gaining confederates who would shield them from the long arm of the law. They made several friends, several enemies, and solved a fair amount of mysteries. Finally, it came time to travel home to London. They had no way of knowing it would be there that their real troubles awaited.
Sherlock Holmes had heard rumors of professor Moriarty since before he and Watson had left London, but he'd never felt like he could do anything about it until he returned. He shared his plan with Watson hesitantly, not really wanting his friend to get mixed up in it, but Watson readily agreed to help him.
"If your life is going to be on the line," he'd said, "mine may as well be, too. Like it or not, we're in this together."
And they were, right up until the moment Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty stood atop a high roof, wrestling for control of the professor's gun. Holmes was by no means a weak man, but Moriarty was a formidable opponent. Watson was below them, running to get up but unable to reach them in time, and so there was no backup from him, not in the moment. Holmes fought hard, and though he lost the fight for the gun, he won the fight for the upper hand. So, in the end, it was who Moriarty fell off the rooftop, and Holmes who wound up with a bullet in his chest.
It wasn't a bad outcome, he decided as he lay dying. His only regret was that he was leaving Watson alone in a world that wouldn't treat him well if they ever learned what had been done to him. But maybe, even that would work itself out in the end. Maybe Watson could start a new life somewhere else, one with a wife and children and a home he didn't have to abandon every few months. Watson had never complained about the life he led with Holmes, but Holmes had always known Watson desired to have a real home. He wouldn't be happy as a nomad forever. Holmes hoped he would have it, tried to convey as much to Watson by the smile he gave him as Watson knelt beside him, holding him while he bled out.
"No," Watson was rambling. "No, no, no. This can't be happening. You can't die. Don't be afraid, Holmes. I'm going to fix this, I promise you. I will put you back together. There's time. I'm going to get you to the lab. Just hang on."
Holmes reached one hand up, placing it on Watson's cheek and trying to keep smiling. He wasn't afraid, and he trusted Watson. He trusted Watson would be alright. Watson was crying, then, and be bent to be close to Holmes.
"Thank you, my friend," Holmes heard him whisper, his lips very close to his ear. "For everything. Thank you."
And with that Holmes closed his eyes, at peace. He was ready to die.
He didn't know in that moment that he would wake up two hours later in his own lab. Instead of him, his friend would be the one who was dead on the floor, his chest open, and blood on his metallic hand. The machine Holmes had used to replace Watson's heart would be above him then, and he would quickly realize that Watson had taken his own heart out, set it in the machine, and started it before losing consciousness. Watson had done it to save him. Holmes should have been dead, but instead he would be lying on the same cot he'd once saved Watson's life on, his own body still connected to the same machines, the same metal heart he'd once given Watson now beating in his own chest.
He didn't know that, in the end, all he'd be able to do would be to hold his friend's body, gone for real this time, and say "thank you." Watson's sacrifice, he would make sure, would not be in vain. He would make good use out of his second chance just like Watson had done with his. It was time he made his life's work known to the world.
What If: Sherlock Holmes was a mad scientist?
And so, dear readers, we see a world where an unexpected discovery leads our heroes down a very different route than that we know. Could Watson's sacrifice have been avoided? We don't know and I can't say. I can only report what is. I am the writer.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed.