Chapter summary: Both Moran and Mycroft chase after a runaway clone.

Week 36

Key words: Dummy restoration

Description: Deliberate interference with transmission.

Comments: REBELLION MUST BE CRUSHED

"It is an honourable mission, perhaps the most honourable for your kind, to probe the greatest mind amongst the living."

"The accomplishment of the mission will mark your release; there will be nothing to set you apart from a citizen, and you will be rewarded a proper share more than enough to make the freedom enjoyable."

"Attend to his every need, and act worthy enough to be taken along on cases. This is the sole purpose of your creation; fail that, consider yourself expired."

The overdue sleep is neither long nor good, when the voices that John is running away from echo in his mind. Perhaps the S-field is doing funny things already. Well, better mad than dead. With a start, John pushes himself out of bed, and washes up briskly. He pays a little more attention in the picking of his outfit than normal, and finds the bracelet still in his coat pocket. He scoops it out, sets it on his nightstand, then puts it back in again. Since Sherlock has never given him anything else, this might be the only souvenir he gets. Oh, he wouldn't miss it, anymore than he would miss me. For a second, John's thoughts drifts back to the bicycles, and soft breeze on the river bank. Grabbing the S-field generator, he inhales deeply as if in the greens, before heading downstairs to meet an impatiently trotting Sherlock.

"Oh, about time. I was hoping for an early start."

John forces his tone to be flat and casual. "Listen, Sherlock, I…I've got stuff to deal with. Got to run. Sorry."

Sherlock narrows his eyes excessively. "You have no family and few friends. What errand could you possibly have?"

"Oh, thanks for pointing that out, I guess it's high time to get a life of my own now, isn't it." John's irritation is largely honest. "I…I've got an interview, at the hospital. I'm getting a real job, see? Sent in my CV last night."

"John, what is the matter? You're acting weird."

"Well, are you upset over being out-weirded?" John tries jest. It's not working for him. For God's sake, you're not wired for this, just get out. He turns around for the door in a hurry, not seeing Sherlock's outreached hand. "Aren't you supposed to be working too? Off you go. Godspeed."

"Fine. When will you get back?" Sherlock calls out from behind.

"I don't know. As soon as I'm done." And John strides away, lest the moisture in his eyes becomes visible.

What a sucky goodbye.

"Permission to seize the target, Sir?" Anthea asks.

"Not yet, not yet." Mycroft lightly shakes his head, as he watches John hastening away from 221B. "To provoke an unpredictable reaction in Sherlock's periphery would be – undesirable. Let us make the flat safe first." He allows John to disappear, before heading inside.

At the Citadel, everyone looks like they are headed somewhere with some sort of purpose, clone or citizen alike. For a moment, John entertains the thought of himself being a real doctor, out for some air in the middle of a day's work. He is seriously contemplating joining the line at the Museum to exercise some citizen privilege, when a white flash hits his left thigh, burning a hole into the fabric. Reflectively clutching at the smoking pieces that once formed a imaginary shield, John feels the tentacles of the M-lab wrapping in, smoothly and soundlessly. As he looks up, emerging from the source of the shock in quick steps is no other than Mr. Moran, the mockery in his bright smile all the too apparent.

For some reason, this is not totally unexpected.

"Be grateful to Science, of whose advance you're contributing very little, that has allowed this handgun to destroy the target but nothing else - just over 5 years ago this very pellet would have shattered your bones." Tucking away the sleek firearm in his hand with a look of admiration, Moran stops at a civil distance, and leans slightly forward as if in inspection. "Since you're not doing your job anyway, I thought you could use a little reboot." His eyes trail down to the hole in John's trousers. "Kept the trinket in your left pocket, always. Did my OCD rub off on you?" He tuts, something in his tone resembling pity. "But to see you naively hiding yourself in a dumb-ass interference signal breaks my heart - I thought you wouldn't forget, that I am capable of tracking anyone I fricking choose, chipped or not. Trust me, it's not easy to deal with my own creation like this."

John takes a deep breath. Now that he's facing what he dreads, the apprehension is gone. "Was it easy to do what you did to the others?" The calm of his own voice is surprisingly fortifying. "What you did was beyond OK."

"And what YOU did, was beyond ridiculous." Moran makes no attempt to cloak his bitter spite. "What do you think you were doing, protecting your genius friend from us? Rest assured that we would never touch a hair on Sherlock's precious head even as he hunts down the whole Academy, while I wouldn't so much as blink to hit the terminate button and be finished with you. Sherlock's one workday is worth a million times more than your whole miserable life – that is not a careless exaggeration, for I never mess with numbers. The production cost of your lot is marginal to what is to be garnered from a fraction of his vastly untapped intellect. Get that, dummy?"

"Judge me however you want, but what about all these people you killed and made kill? They don't deserve - "

"Oh, what do they deserve, losers who have indulged themselves in all the material comforts of this world brought about by the work of others and taken up various public resources but accomplished next to nothing? Serving as Sherlock's stimuli might be the best they can do. No, don't you give me that look - I don't recall installing any moral disciplines, did you pick those up while hanging out with the sociopath? Interesting." Moran's eyes glare. "You are designated to make observations, not decisions. I built a dummy, not a priest. Don't take it upon yourself to change the way the world runs, Johnny, you've got so much to learn. Now go change your pants and get back to work, and either way, you'll earn what you deserve in due time. Clear?"

"Yes, and I'm quitting from that work." With that, John abruptly turns around to run, blending into the flux at the nearest entrance to the Jet-way Station. With a huge grimace, Moran follows, first in large strides, then racing. Shit. Should not have made him so athletic.

On second thought, should have just let the pellet go through his bloody leg.

Halfway down the tunnel, Moran stays his hand that was reaching for the handgun in the face of the masses moving in every direction. Arousing the public is not in his best interest. God, I hate people. Since the crowd also takes away much of John's athletic advantage and makes Moran's lean physique a plus, the distance between them begins to demonstrate a tendency to go down to zero before a shuttle would arrive on the platform. Panting hard and feeling overwhelmed, John spots a Staff Only sign around the corner.

Thank God for Mycroft.

The maintenance passage closes in Moran's face. Suppressing his impulse to futilely shoot at the secured door only by redirecting his frustration back to the M-lab, Moran spits into his headgear through clenched teeth. "Jim, alert the authorities that we have a clone at large! Clone at large!"

"Hush, Sebbie, you know we can't do that." As usual, Moriarty sounds more laid back than to Moran's liking. "What clone? Our dummy is never in their flimsy Clone Control System, and we'll never hear the end of it if we talk first. I see that you have gotten rid of Big Brother's lousy gadget, and the monitors are back on. So what's not under control, by us?"

The tip of Mycroft's umbrella comes in through the door, just as Sherlock is about to put on his scarf.

"I saw your flatmate leave. Could have stopped him, but I thought it best to go over the issue with you first."

Sherlock scowls. "Whatever issue you have, Mycroft, make it quick, I do have work today."

"Perhaps in your toil to solve the mysteries of this city, you have missed the ones right in your flat. Put your gloves on before handling these papers." Mycroft notions to Anthea, who hands a file case to Sherlock. "They are difficult to retrieve even for me. The ancient state of Britannia did boast a remarkably meticulous filing system."

"I believe the era you are talking about is of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, going by the quality of the print. Are you asking for my advice on archaeology now?"

"It is surprising how history always reveals new things. Don't you love surprises, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face falls as he catches a glimpse of the faded coarse 2D photograph on the first page of the contents, of a sandy-haired soldier with a weary smile, a Union Jack in background.

"Unless you believe in incarnation, your new best friend is born of a breeding-pool, not of a womb. His citizen Identity was a recent hack, if you would care to read the Records log. I do not have the heart to deem it impossible, Sherlock," Mycroft is shaking his head, "but I have always thought it highly improbable for you to find a human companion."

"So?" Sherlock shrugs off the indignity, though the hand holding the papers trembles slightly.

"SO? I'm telling you that your flatmate is designed – by no other than the M-lab, if that name means anything to you. Look here," Mycroft pushes the hovering pages of Terra Bulletin of Intelligence Simulation into Sherlock's face, along with the brain scans he obtained months ago. Somehow he misses the era of the printing press, when such materials could be slammed down with more drama. "Yourself being so mechanic, the occasional spurs of John~001's robotic behaviour were passed as normal, were they not?"

Furrowing his brows over the graphs and equations, Sherlock skips to the data section and pauses; his slightly clenched fingers are enough hints for Mycroft that something is way off. "They are talking about cases. My cases."

The newfound connection between the drab writing and recent events makes Sherlock silent with unspecified remorse, and Mycroft's voice becomes somehow softer. "I regret not bringing you this information sooner; previously my worst-case conjecture concerning his endorser did not go beyond some mafia honcho who wants your whereabouts, but the M-lab, oh the M-lab - in his self-righteousness Moriarty knows of no limits, legal, moral or otherwise. I will see to it that this flat be adequately secured; meanwhile," he extends his palm, "I would like to retrieve my Identity, just to be safe. You'll find your way to another one at your convenience, won't you?"

Sherlock searches his pockets before freezing at the realisation. "I…I gave it to him. For a case."

For a second, Mycroft looks like he is about to implode. "With that level of clearance he could be wrecking havoc anywh- Good God, Sherlock!"

"I can't - I don't - Get out." With an exasperated swing, Sherlock points his bow to the door, before setting it to the strings quickly.

"That noise is very disturbing, Sir." Anthea makes a rare uninitiated comment.

"Yes, it is. He started doing it at age 10." Mycroft sighs. "Before that, he cried. Give him a minute, after which we still need to clear out the flat. Go through every piece of John~001's possession, see if there would be any clue to the conspiracy."