Chapter summery: Moran publishes a journal article, and Watson gets a gift.
Moran, S., Moriarty, J. High-order nonlinearity of the superior reasoning system and its statistical approximation. Terra Bulletin of Intelligence Simulation. 38,13-27(2895).
"Good job, Sebbie! The reception was rave at the Conference."
"A statistical model means nothing," Moran groans. "it's just a nice way of admitting that no dynamic model is making sense. Will we ever build Sherlock, Jim?"
"Patience, Seb, patience. We are only at the beginning, and our dummy brings many surprises."
This morning, Holmes is away early. Watson faintly recalls his mumblings the previous night concerning Mummy, and sits down in the living room for a nice cuppa. It is so enjoyably quiet that the opening lines of the classical Avenue Q: If You were Gay would be most fitting, were it not for the fear of sniggers at the M-Lab. Suddenly, a strange interference comes over him. Contrary to the M-Lab forcing that commands, this is a counter-presence – the strings are cut. His mind is free.
Before there is time to contemplate the eerie change, the door is opened by Anthea without knocking. "What you are experiencing is an S-field, Dr. Watson. Please be assured that our current communication is safe from any unfriendly eyes, for your chips are now out of the service zone. Would you come along with me?"
Irritated by the uninitiated intrusion, Watson replies coldly, "We are alone here. You can talk."
"Well, we are not alone here for no reason. But this flat will not do, for there is much to talk about." Maintaining her placid smile, Anthea takes a step closer. "Shall I remove your shirt, Dr. Watson, to make my point?"
Watson just stares, and swallows down his tea really hard.
"The jet-car is right at the door, if you would, please."
Following Anthea through the arched corridor, Watson is pretty positive that the funny-looking fake flowers hanging on both sides in precise symmetry are doing more detection than decoration. Such are the things that may pass unnoticed by a layperson, but coming from the M-Lab, Watson has seen enough weird devices for a lifetime. In an utterly plain room at the corridor's end is Holmes the senior without a doubt, already perusing the readings from the scan.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet." Upon Watson's entry, Holmes the senior gives his umbrella a lavish swing. "Apologies for the inconvenience, Dr. Watson, or should I call you John~ what's the number? 001 I suppose, since there has been no other who shares your prototype."
Oh, here comes the Government. Watson wonders if the omnipresent Mycroft Holmes has ever entered the consideration of the M-Lab as a part of the plan. He straightens himself up to face his forthright opponent. "Who I am is not of your business. I have come into your brother's acquaintance in good-will, and we are now friends, if that is your concern."
"It is extraordinary, to claim friendship with Sherlock Holmes." Holmes the senior chuckles. "And you are indeed an extraordinary fabricant. The peculiar location of your chips has been fascinating since we first met, but how they function has eluded me without a high-resolution scan. Five sensors for the five senses. Your endorser is quite old-school in the design of what is perhaps the first truly holistic humanoid surveillance. In all honesty, access to this sort of information is what myself would very much like to have, although I understand that it is not yours to give."
Holistic humanoid surveillance. The foul undertone of the technical description turns Watson's stomach a little. Is this really what I am, and what I do? The Government is so good at breaking people. Must not relent. "Mr. Holmes, I trust that you are a busy man, so are we getting to the point anytime soon?"
"Busy as I am, I should always gladly take the necessary time and effort to protect my little brother's interest, as well as his friend's." Holmes the senior is in no hurry at all. "Do not grudge so swiftly, for I do have your best interest in mind. Have you realised that the communication via your five sensors is in fact one-way? What you experience is harvested like honey from a beehive, but what you think is left untouched. Your endorser does not ask for your feedback. Perhaps it is not considered worth the while. Are you relieved or slighted by the omission? It could be to your advantage."
Watson stands amazed for a moment. Indeed he has not realised this. The chips intercede his senses and issue commands without asking for an RSVP – despite being constantly watched, his thoughts stay hidden, unless they are shouted out or written down, which then get heard or seen. This is an exciting new fact, for some reason.
"The visible presence of the sixth is largely regrettable. Just don't go swimming with Sherlock." Before Watson could think of a comeback, Holmes the senior directs a nod towards Anthea, who produces a palm-sized round patch with a single tiny blue light, and hands it to Watson.
"Here - this is the S-field generator. Take the S to stand for shelter or safety. It would shield all signals to and from your endorser, covering even the sixth chip." Watson involuntarily jolts a little at the mentioning of the terminative. "But use only sparingly - prolonged exposure to the S-field poses a health risk not yet fully assessed, especially to the brain. Take precaution, Dr. Watson, may it serve you well in need. I need not spell out my preference to our meeting going unmentioned to my dear brother, do I?"
As soon as Watson disappears into the corridor, Anthea turns to Mycroft. "Sir, this is a paradox. When the chips are under command, the source of the incoming signal can be easily traced with a scan, exposing our involvement through Watson's observation in the process. But when the endorser's access to Watson's observation is cut off by an S-field - "
"There will be no incoming signal to trace. Quite a puzzle, isn't it?" Amusement glints in Holmes the senior's eyes. "Whoever his endorser be, he or she surely lacks no intellect. Interrogation would probably not help, since this fellow is wired to be very loyal – the question is, to which side. To get ahead, we take the long route. Run his genetic footprint through the Integrated Human Genetics Record. His prototype would be our first clue."
"Yes, Sir."
"Drop me off at Ocset, will you?"
Watson switches off the patch on his first step into the hypermarket. Not surprisingly, Mycroft has managed to come across as even more ominous than the notorious MorMor, and Watson does not like the sound of unspecified risk. Plus, there is no harm in the M-Lab feeling the milk's weight in his hand and tasting all the free samples he tries. Enjoy the bit of disgusting cheez-squeez, Moran.
Upon returning to the flat, what Watson sees stretched all over the sofa is Holmes's lean body in a state of deliberate intoxication. It's not a situation that Watson is particularly fond of, but the oddity has now become a familiarity. And familiarities, however wrong, have a way of getting condone. With a sigh, Watson sits down opposite to Holmes, and makes a remark.
"You are a man of habit."
"Hmm?" Holmes lazily turns his head. After a handful of cases together, he has somehow gotten used to random comments from his infinitely curious companion. Watson's voice, free from condemnation, sounds extra distant through the haze.
"You stick to cocaine, when there has been more efficient means of achieving the euphoria for centuries. And the fascination with the bicycle. Not to mention your violin – many play the instrument visually, but with actual, physical bow and strings?" Watson teases. "Are you from the 1700s?"
"Digitalized sounds repel me." Holmes responds. "But carry on. What else have you observed?"
"In spite of the insatiate chase after thrill and excitement, you value above all the few anchors you have - unlikely certainties in a churning world. Your appreciation is in the form of rituals, which happen to include the constant belittlement of myself."
"Excellent!" Holmes suddenly sits up. "See, Watson, you are not only a brilliant transmitter of light, but also a brilliant reflector. When you reflect my deductions back at me, I shall reflect your compliments back at you."
"Shit, our dummy is making his own deductions. I'm not sure if I like that." Moriarty's brows tie into a knot as he watches Watson's words being recognised from the sound wave, one by one.
"Don't be silly, Jimmy. He is our biological equal, if not superior, of course he can observe and form ideas." Moran casually bites at his sandwich. "Do you want to cut him off though? That can be quite easily done."
"Yes, please do, it's creeping me out. The dummy might prove to be a faster learner than our model itself overtime."
A blocking signal towards Watson's speech pathway is sent by a bag of crisps hitting the interface, but Moriarty's comment has switched on something in Moran's mind.
"…Well?"
"Nothing. I forgot what I was talking about."
"And they say drugs deteriorate the brain." Holmes shakes his head before dozing off.
Leave me alone.
Closing his bedroom door, Watson fingers the new possession in his pocket. The rude interference with the conversation he just had was the most annoying experience ever, even more so than all the random unsettling commands from Moran whenever he likes. Why is that? Maybe it comes from the realisation – with Mycroft's help – that his thoughts are free, but his expressions aren't. Well, that can change. He decides to take some time, truly, for himself. The S-field is flipped on, and he opens up his log-pad, which previously consists of grocery lists, mostly.
S is for solitude.
Wednesday, 2 Nov 2895
Today I got kidnapped by Mycroft, and he called me holistic humanoid surveillance. That doesn't sound nice at all. Moriarty once said to me, matter-of-factly, It is an honourable mission, perhaps the most honourable for your kind, to probe the greatest mind amongst the living. So apparently all that I am is for watching Sherlock move, and probing his mind. But what about his heart? …
"Shit. Oh shit. A second episode of downtime in one single day, Jimmy. Not good."
"The first ever downtime occurred this morning when Holmes was away and Watson went shopping; then hours later a second, when Watson was sitting in his room alone." The look on Moriarty's face is tense as he browses through the records. "It could be that the all-too-frequent rushes of adrenaline are wearing out the sensors, and the damage is most manifest when relieved from stress. So far, the blank intervals are not causing much data loss, but if it happens when Sherlock is on a case - "
Moran slouches his shoulders, and covers his face with both hands in chagrin. "Jimmy, I think we've made a mistake."
Moriarty smirks. "What, you're pregnant?"
"Shut up, listen to me!" Moran raises his voice in anger. "The trouble we went through to install Watson as a real person is precisely the mistake. What we should have said is, here Sherlock, have a clone live-in, and we'll gladly replace him if he breaks. It fits Sherlock better, and would have allowed updates of our dummy design when we need."
"Hmm. Good point. Is it too late to do that now?"
"Emotional attachments. Ugh." Moran points his chin to the monitor back in motion, showing Watson downstairs asking Holmes what delivery he would like to order. "See? Bonds with a sociopath are difficult to establish, and once they are in place, a disturbance would have complicated and unpredictable consequences. We can't just remove, or replace Watson now, without troubling Sherlock's mind."
"Then the mistake is mine, to have made Watson so likeable, thus tying our own hands." Says Moriarty, grimly. "Now our only option is to make the most use out of him."
Chapter end note:
Updated with minor wording fixes.
Concerning this universe: the name for the hypermarket, Ocset, springs from an actual retail chain (you'll have one close to you if you live in Britain). Guess which one.