A/N: Short, because I'm still a bit unsure on this one. Hopefully more to come. Don't ask how I come up with these; I don't know. Keep safe. -csf


1.

I reach over to the kettle and a grating metallic noise echoes in the kitchen. A bit like a construction site crane interbred with a an old cargo ship. Not as loud, just as misplaced in Baker Street.

The kitchen sink tap drips from time to time, the woods creak as they accommodate the temperature fluctuations as if making themselves comfortable, some of Sherlock's experiments bubble, rattle or blur, and Mrs Turner's next door tenants are noisy at time. However, there's never heavy steel construction work around.

Of course I know exactly who to blame, habit tells me that.

I glance over my shoulder at Sherlock, sitting immobile as a statue in his armchair, finding the puzzle pieces fit to place when he's staring with a piercing look stuck on me.

'What was that?' I ask. No, I demand to know. I'm taking no prisoners on this one. Instinct telling me not to let go of this one instance of the usual unexpected.

With Sherlock Holmes the unexpected is often the most telling.

'What was what, John?' Crystalline eyes open wide, studying mine. Plausible deniability answers being sought out behind those familiar eyes.

He's clearly hiding something.

'That noise.'

'Ohh', he says, innocently. 'Nothing, you just need a bit of oil. I'll take care of that this evening, worry not.'

I squint. 'Ugh?'

He sighs theatrically. 'You forgot again. You're half cyborg, John. Your left shoulder and a few other bits. I help keep you oiled, usually, as it's hard for you to reach everywhere. Oh, not that glare of panic again! It's okay, John. You're just dreaming. It's just a weird dream.'

I take a deep breath. Okay, that's better. I have weird dreams all the time, especially in hot nights. Better than Afghanistan and vast sands, but I don't want to think about that either, I'll end up triggering myself.

'A weird dream', I agree, 'that's better.'

Sherlock grins. 'Works every time.'

I blink.

'How many times do you tell me I'm dreaming a cyborg dream, Sherlock?' I demand, tersely.

'Every time you panic, John', he answers calmly. I'm not feeling all that confident anymore, so I ask my oracle:

'What happened? Why am I like this?'

'You got shot in the war.'

'No, after that. I came back to London 100% human.' I'm sure of that.

Sherlock gets up, suddenly jittery. 'Does it matter? John, I think it's time for your oil. It might help you remember', he tempts me, opening his eyes wide. I know I'm being played here.

It really must be a dream, for it was in a dreamlike state that I suddenly found myself besides my trusted friend, we are both standing by the fireplace's mirror. My head full of questions.

Sherlock often compares his mental process is with mental cogs, turning and gaining momentum along deductions, but it's imbedded in my bicep and triceps I see the metal gears, turning and spinning, alongside electronic cables, resistors, thermistors, and all sorts of circuitry, just visible from my shoulder and all the way down to my elbow. I touched the skin on the underside of my arm; still warm and alive. How? Machine and human tissues grasp together imperfect cohesion? It's something out of a sci-fi plot, it's not real.

I poke it, tentatively. Feels real enough.

Suddenly I notice Sherlock is waiting for my attention. He's holding up a small dropper bottle of viscous oil, something like lubricant for a sewing machine or a vintage typewriter. There is absolute empathy as he waits for me to give him a sign that I am ready. I nod, stoically accepting the evidence of my own eyes. It must be true, if unbelievable. Sherlock says it's true and I trust my friend.

'You know the drill, John. Reach for the skull.'

I blink and obey the instructions I don't remember ever being told before. Again, the same rattling metallic noise and Sherlock just recoils slightly.

'It's not painful', I say, reading his mind.

He nods, looking relieved, then finally reaches out towards my shoulder and drips a few spots of oil.

I can't feel it. I'm slightly disappointed at that. I'm apparently part machine and that part is non-sentient. Seems like a bad trade off to me. Why can't I feel the machinery that sustains part of me?

'Your shoulder was bothering you a lot, then something happened, and there was an opportunity to fix your shoulder this inventive way, John. They minimised the intervention as much as possible. I was worried, but at the and you were still John, the John I knew, my friend, and, apart from a curious tendency to forget your own new condition, you are the same.'

'How long ago did this happen?' I point to my extended arm.

Sherlock signals me to flex my arm to disperse the oil on the metal surfaces. I follow his request. The metal muscles feel stiff but work according to plan.

From a medical point of view, it's quite neat; if impossible.

'A couple of months now. You had a wondrous recovery, John, but are still reminded to not overexert yourself. You will remember that while you prepare me a cup of tea?'

'And why did this happen?' I ignore his misdirection easily.

Sherlock's hand grasps the oil bottle with a deadly vice.

'Later, John, I'll tell you. Now is not the time.'

'You know, for a dream this is awfully detailed', I squint at my friend.

He smirks. 'You're a storyteller, won't that need to keep a logical plotline permeate your subconscious mind?'

'I guess. Sherlock—'

We're interrupted by Mrs Hudson's familiar call. 'Boys?'

She's coming up the stairs. I haste to roll my sleeve down to shield my arm from the prying eyes of our landlady. Don't want to shock her, at her age.

Sherlock stands princely by the mantle as Mrs Hudson comes over to us. She's got a few metal gears of her own. I guess it figures, she's always had at least a bad hip.

'John, dear, what is it? You look like you're seeing a ghost!'

Not a ghost, but a high quality modern sci-fi automaton with the soul essence and quick resemblance of our landlady. I'm still a bit stunned as the robotic Mrs Hudson gives me a quick but heartfelt hug.

'It's alright, John, your memories will return to you in no time. Don't fret, dear, you've got us. We're here for you.'

I nod, hazily. I really could do with that cup of tea I was making myself. Tea always makes everything better.

Am I moving mechanically out of shock or habit?

'Wait, Sherlock, do I rust?' I turn sharply.

The detective seem surprised. 'Perhaps if I leave you out in the rain or if you fall on the Thames again, but you can have your tea, John.'

Good. Everything's alright then, I decide.

Sherlock smiles as I go for my kettle again.

.

TBC