A/N: Second half. Sorry it took so long. -csf


2.

Such as I suspected, Sherlock has been keeping records of my transformation into a cyborg. It seems I have been very compliant, I wonder why. Did Sherlock threaten to burn down the living room curtains again, or was I worried about the process?

I'm sat on my armchair, studying long tables of figures that the detective compiled in a neat academic fashion. Strength improving quickly as the muscles better grasp the metal prosthetics, precision looking better too (one would think at first I couldn't reach over to a cuppa without knocking it off the table), speed and range of movement still under a lot of scrutiny – but I can almost read the admiration from the rows of impersonal numbers in Sherlock's handwriting.

Never heard of anyone like me. To go through this transformation, to survive it and, apparently, to thrive afterwards, it's as spectacular as it is unheard of.

Quite a spectacular dream, really.

I get up, restless, to have a look at it again. I'm already unbuttoning my shirt as I go over to my absent flatmate's bedroom, he's got a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. I stand on the worn floorboards and wince as I take in the familiar destruction of my shoulder scar and the new ridged landscapes of scar tissue and spongy, unfeeling skin.

Feels like a part of me is missing; a damaged part I carried with pride, no matter the weight of trauma assigned. Sherlock would insist this is a better part of me I have now, an upgraded version of my hardware. Trust the genius to renegade the human condition, reduce it to a logical string of equations and mathematical functions, something to study, simplified to the basic elements and stored away in neat labelled definitions and axioms. Sometimes I think the detective sees the world in black and white, pixelated, all zeros and ones. I'm quite sure Sherlock at least tries to mechanise all reality, for it gives purpose, confidence, and certainty to a world that often mistreats him. It is the sign of a vulnerability he is not willing to accept of himself, that he would rather see the world as something mechanic, automatic – predictable, reliable, infallibly following a given set of prescribed rules he wants to define in the English language.

I willingly gave away my power of attorney to Sherlock long ago. I would do it again in a heartbeat. Even if unforeseen circumstances like this present state can arise. I trust Sherlock with my life. I trust his decisions, I defer to the biggest mind of the century to know what is best for me, but most of all I absolutely believe in the amazing, generous heart that lives and beats in Sherlock's chest to know what is best for me. If my friend thought this was the best outcome, then I am sure it was.

The only thing I suspect of is my worrisome lack of a full memory. I cannot recall what happened. It is a strange effect of my transformation that my memories would become patchy, sporadic and untrustworthy. For that again I need to rely on Sherlock.

I grab a clean shirt and don it on with determination. It's only halfway through that I realise my nimble fingers are processing the task adequately, with adequate precision. Maybe I'm making too much of a small thing after all. I should really give this transformation a chance. No more aching shoulder pains, surely that's a bonus.

.

Despite my patchy memory problems I can very well remember how we spent the whole morning chasing a dangerous criminal on the back alleys and dirty railway tracks of London. Eventually he got away, gaining the advantage as he finally produced an automatic gun he seemingly had stashed away in an abandoned outhouse. We should have guessed he was leading us somewhere with a definite purpose, but drunk by the adrenaline of the chase and distracted by our impending success as we got closer and closer, we allowed the dangerous criminal to choose our path. Once he collected the gun, the game changed. The first few shots marked an inversion of course. Sherlock and I were wisely running away from the killer. Now empowered by the imbalanced power play, he aimed his gun at Sherlock. I wouldn't have that. Without enough time to act, I tried second best, to shield my friend from the shots. I was too slow.

Spooked by the attention granted by his fired gun and his success in hitting one of the two targets, the killer sprinted away, running for freedom.

It feels like I've been walking for miles in the hot, sinking sands of the desert, by the time we reach Baker Street. Sherlock's scarf wrapped over my damaged bicep is hardly enough to stench the blood letting. I try to keep my arm nestled against my chest, hidden under the torn black fabric of my jacket. Sherlock is beside me every step of the way, a towering strength that steers my uneven steps.

More people on the streets now. Thank goodness for the habits imprinted by social distancing. I can smell my own hot blood soaking Sherlock's ruined scarf. Only my friend's close proximity might disguise what is so obvious from the public audience.

I lean my head against Sherlock's collarbone as he stands and unlocks our front door. He must nudge me before I climb the few steps inside the front door.

Mrs Hudson senses disaster and rushes over from her flat, hands wet from lemony washing up liquid and hot water. I appreciate the homely feeling and sensorial memory. I'm glad I remember this, I will never forget.

'Oh, Sherlock, he doesn't look too good!' she laments. 'What have you done?'

I'm getting confused, I think. I can't remember who or what she is talking about.

Sherlock is glancing carefully the street outside for dangerous accomplices before locking the door. Mrs Hudson is the one who rushes up to me, doing a brilliant empty chair twirling act so to have me collapse on its cushion. My head lolls straight into her damp apron. Lemon scent envelops me as I blink to keep awake.

The detective is kneeling beside me in two seconds, holding my head up, forcing me to face him, analysing me with another stuttered set of life stats he can't help but to collect anxiously.

'You need rest in order to heal, John', he finally concludes.

I fully concur.

.

It doesn't take long before somehow I've transferred onto Mrs Hudson's sofa. Fuzzily I notice Sherlock tries to hold the world together, being the responsible one. Mrs Hudson is supposed to be isolated from her dangerous tenants. There's still a virus out there, dead set in its ways to make the year 2020 near impossible to live, and beyond belief to describe by time travellers to the future.

We're placing Mrs H in danger by being in her flat. Not for the first time I wished there was a lift up to my bedroom. It's such a brilliant idea, how come we haven't installed one yet?

Sherlock keeps our kind landlady busy at the safest distance he can muster.

This distancing thing is weighing down on us all now. How much longer?

I miss Mrs Hudson's comforting lemony scent.

It's a nice sofa, but anything would feel nice at this point I imagine, and it's got an intricate crocheted doily propped on the back rest. A yarn based construction of civilised weavings in a concentric circle. I'm watching it lazily from below, and it takes me a while before I realise my head rests on a comfortable lap. In fact, Mrs H is cradling my head in her lap, softly brushing damp hair from my forehead.

It feels motherly and protective, and I can feel my guard crumbling down.

Sherlock returns with my first aid bag, that he quickly dumps on the rug in our landlady's small living room.

'How's he?'

'He was muttering just moments ago and his temperature is still rising. Sherlock, dear, are you sure you don't want a doctor?'

'We have one in the room already and he says no.'

'I see, dear, but he's also called me Mum and snitched on his sister Harry.'

Sherlock grins. 'Honest mistakes, Mrs Hudson. Now we just need John to focus long enough to tell us how to treat his gunshot wound before it infects. Luckily it just missed his machinery implants.'

I try to clear my throat, and order my thoughts. Wouldn't a bullet have ricocheted off the metal? Why didn't I think of that before?

The landlady huffs. 'Oh, give me here, dearie. I'll do it. The late Mr Hudson never complained, nor did his mates. Terrible scuffles they kept getting into with the nice police officers. Men and their toy guns, they are all the same, aren't they?'

I close my eyes. Figures. Mrs Hudson saves the day as usual.

.

I've memorized the elaborate doily by night fall. Sherlock has spent the past hours pacing the room, sometimes muttering to himself, sometimes taking up his violin to play softly. He didn't need to ask if it was okay, he could see it in my face that I dreaded waking up from my constant dozes alone. It reminds me of darker times and makes the pain and the shock so much worse.

But now Lestrade is coming up, and we've weighed enough on our kind landlady, put her in danger by our presence in her living room, so I'm willing to peel myself from the sofa and drag myself up to 221B.

Mrs Hudson has been volunteering to cook us some meals, despite me telling her I'll be tight as rain by tomorrow. She's an absolute angel and keeps telling me to think nothing of the deep red stain I poured into her sofa.

I may be a bit feverish, because I started suspecting that doily in the back of the sofa as a cover up over other ominous, historical red stains.

I may be part machine now, but I don't have x-ray vision and I dare not mess with Mrs Hudson's sofa decor.

The wonderfully homely lemon and honey scent pouring from her kitchen almost make my resolve falter, though. Almost. Sherlock needs to see me back on my feet. Luckily I've got a few days off before my next shift at the hospital, even if I could have wished to spend those days in better shape.

'John. Are you sure it's not too early to get you up those flight of stairs?'

I smile softly at the figure of my best friend. I'm finally really looking at him. His dark curls are wilder and storm tossed. His grey-green eyes are trembling in the orbs. His skin is both pale and flushed. I think I really did a number on my friend.

'No need to add more metal bits to me, mate.'

Sherlock smirks and crinkles the piece of paper he was doodling on.

'If you say so, John, I'll put away the tool box.'

Wait, did the incredible genius just admit he helped design my new cyborg state?

.

'Sherlock!' I shout my mate's name in full despair as I launch myself through a burning building, nearly blinded by the revolving smoke and bright flames, grappling at the walls. 'Sherlock!' Where is he? Why does he always set off on his own, no regard for his own safety? He cryptically said "it was the acetone in the bathtub" and dashed in a mad run inside a burning building.

I followed at once, but soon lost him in mist of billowing smoke puffs and live flickering flames.

'John...'

His voice is a near whimper, half-awake, half out of it. He coughs through a painfully scratchy throat. I use that desperate sound to guide me towards my friend through a thick haze of lead grey smoke. I hardly notice I'm coughing too.

'Look out!'

An ominous cracking would sound alerts me to a breaking ceiling beam. I launch myself forward, over the prone form of my collapsed friend, my mechanic arm blocking the thick beam from hitting us. I'm left gasping for air, leaning over Sherlock, who looks absolutely shocked as he takes in his friend bracing up a heavy scorched wooden beam over us.

I'm a bit proud I can still surprise Sherlock like this.

I learnt a lesson from my last misadventure with a stray bullet. I can use my dual nature to our advantage. Like a superhero with a secret power.

The beam is a bit heavy, though. I can't feel it contacting my cyber arm parts, but I'm weighed down on perfectly human and exhausted muscles by it. I'm glad Sherlock is already scrambling out from underneath me. Just a touch longer, keep steady...

I gasp as I feel the pain from the mistake I made.

Metals are great heat conductors. Oh crap. Hot, hot, hot!

Sherlock's eyes narrow as soon as he's up. He uses the billowing tail of his coat to protect his hands as he shoves away the heavy beam.

He helps me out of our burning hell.

This time the unfortunate criminal is lost to his own trap, reminding us of our own narrow escape.

.

'John, you will never do that again!' Sherlock shouts at me.

He has been unreasonably panicking for the last four hours, pacing aimlessly and shouting to the distance between us. I feel a migraine setting in.

'Do what? Save your life? I don't think I can promise you that, Sherlock. Ever', I say, firmly.

I'm alright now. We are back at Baker Street; our refuge, our home. All is well that ends well, they say.

He stops his nervous pacing, and looks me straight in the eye to whisper, in an emotionally charged moment, so uncharacteristic of him: 'I will not nearly lose you again.'

I sense more to his words than he may gave been willing to let on.

This is about my required transformation.

'What happened?' I ask, in the same introspective tone of voice he employed. 'How did I become like this?'

'Just some minor improvements, John.'

I squint. 'Did my shoulder bother you that much?'

He sucks his lips, and presses them to a thin, disappearing line.

'Sherlock, what else did I have messed with?'

He twirls away in his billowing coat, and states, suddenly studying attentively the skull on the mantel.

'Some knowledge upgrade, John, along with processing capacity. It came in handy and I appreciated the opportunity to deal with you in a more equal basis. It really defeats the purpose when I try to keep it a secret. Unfortunately the new brilliant synapses seem to overcome some medium term memory areas, but rest assure I'm working on a software upgrade as we speak and—'

I really still hope this is a dream. A very disturbing, realistic dream, featuring my mad scientist friend.

'No', I step back. Doubt, fear and a hint of terror coursing through my veins. 'No, Sherlock, you wouldn't.'

He smiles, lopsided. 'For you alone, John, I would, of course I would.'

'No!' I shout, as if the force in my voice could make the case for me.

He rolls his eyes. 'Oh, not the reveal again. How many times have we been through this, and then you forget all over again?'

I shake my head shivering slightly, feeling dizzy from the spinning thoughts going through my mind, through whatever essentially mine areas still left untainted in me.

My soul remains intact.

'Just drop it, John', he advises, coldly. There is heart breaking silence after that. It fills the distance over the rug, between us, taking over the space.

Then I hear it once more, a faint but unmistakable sound of a ticking clock; or a bomb counting down the time to detonation.

'Sherlock', I understand.

He wouldn't have been so daredevil with his best mate unless he had tested his experiment and the only test subject it truly trusted for his ingenuous powers of construction.

'Show me', I whisper.

He hesitates only for a second, suspending my doubt in a pure, crystalline, still moment in time. Then, slowly, he unbuttons his shirt to reveal his pale chest and alabaster skin, where I finally can see buried in his skin, the source of that unrelenting ticking clock sound that followed me around for days. My friend, in his aspiration to become all things logical and machinelike, has upgraded his beating heart to a wondrous artificial organ, devoid of human qualities.

I reach forward, mesmerised, and try to touch him—

'John!'

I lurch out of bed with a huge start, Sherlock's voice linking the two worlds I cohabited for an instant. I was sleeping, dreaming weird machinations that only a feverish mind could put together one second, and the next my flatmate was worriedly trying to raise me back to consciousness.

Grabbing a tight hold of his own I shake him the blink away the last remnants of my dream turned nightmare and try to make sense of my dusky bedroom, my sweat drenched bedsheets, and the glass of water and paracetamol I left on my bed stand.

'John', he whispers as if he understood my turmoil. Perhaps it does, from an outside point of view. 'You're alright now.'

I chuckle, scratching my arm from awkwardness, until I freeze and roll up my sleeve to analyse the live, warm, unblemished skin underneath the t-shirt sleeve. Sherlock follows my gaze with mild amusement.

'Yes, we're alight, Sherlock.' I pat him affectionately and volunteer: 'Wait until I tell you about the weird dream I had.'

He kindly helps me up.

'Sure, John. I could use a break, I'm running out of ideas to experiment on anyway.'

'Don't you even dare', I warn.

He looks absolutely confused.

.