Mere days later, and Sherlock is discharged (with Mycroft promising that he will be dropping in very shortly to deliver him his 'manual'). He had not spoken at all since discovering his newfound cybernetic existance, which made for a very awkward taxi journey home. John flicks a glance or two at Sherlock, who is looking vacantly out of the window.
Looking at him, you'd never be able to tell. Dressed as sharp as a new pin and not a scratch on his skin, which had been artificially 'regrown' as the explosion had took most of it off. His new skin, though the same in appearance, now adaptable to his mechanical limbs. Sherlock had, of course, been sat down many times, teams of doctors and scientists sitting around him and explaining how exactly he works. He would toss his head at certain words, but never nod or speak to show that he fully understands.
"Sherlock." John gently speaks once they are back in the flat. No answer. "Sherlock, come on. You have to talk about this. Noone knows what you're thinking."
The man, finally, graces him with an grumbling mutter while removing his coat."No change there."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well, are we going to talk about this? I mean, Sherlock .. god, it's a huge lifestyle change." John seats himself in his favoured armchair, watching Sherlock who has assumed his brooding post beside the window, looking out with his hands together under his chin. He falls silent again. "And you don't need to keep being moody with everyone. You didn't even say hello to Mrs Hudson when she answered the door."
Silence.
"Sherlock. Please." John pleads, beginning to grow tired now. "If Mycroft didn't let them do it, you would have died. Everything was just burnt and blown off. I mean, god knows I was shocked when he told me. I was outraged - "
"Outraged." Sherlock echoes, cutting him off there and turning sharply away from the window. "I am far from outraged."
It is John's turn to be struck silent. Sherlock continues.
"Don't you see? I have everything I could ever need, built into me. No more diving into B&Q before cases - it's perfect." He edges away from the window, his hands becoming animated with his words. "It isn't a livestyle change, John. It's a lifestyle benefit."
John is stunned, mouth hanging. "So .. you're not angry?"
"Not anymore, no." Sherlock smirks, putting his hands back together. "Admittedly, it took longer than I thought to recover from the initial shock. Two hours at least."
In relief, the doctor exhales and dares emit a tiny chuckle. "I thought you absolutely hated me."
"For a short while, I did. My faith in you was soon restored when I began playing with my new toys."
"You've been .. trying it all out then?"
A darker smirk spreads onto Sherlock's face behind his clapped hands, his clear eyes making a sharp dart to fridge on the far side of the kitchen. Remembering that pot of strawberry yoghurt. "Hungry?"
Before John can answer, he has to duck his head as Sherlock straightens his arm fully out - his hand protracting from his forearm with the metal shaft still in play, acting as a spring to return the hand as quickly as it had gone. Holding a pot of yoghurt.
Elated, truly like a boy with a new toy. Sherlock hands John the pot. "Oh, so you need something to eat it with?" John watches in open mouthed awe as he raised the same hand, ready to duck again - but this time Sherlock's index finger sinks into his hand, a teaspoon emerging from the gap. Eagerly, Sherlock plucks it up and gives it to him. "I'll need that back, once you've washed it. Obviously."
Truly gobsmacked, John can only utter a comment on how amazing that was before tucking into the yoghurt.