Work Text:
7th August 2024
“Sir, we have the final report from the Maiwand Mission.”
The Chief of the Defence Staff looked up from the papers strewn across the table, ignoring the heated discussion of the Commanders and Generals behind him. He held out his hand for the file, and dismissed the Major who delivered it.
He read through the report, his face growing more grim with each line.
“Gentlemen,” he interrupted the discussion at the table, the gathered officers falling silent almost instantly. “We have the final Maiwand report. The situation is rather more serious than we first thought.”
“Sir?”
The Chief of the Defence Staff took a deep breath, his frown deepening ever further.
“Given the information and reports we have received to date, I propose to terminate Watson with immediate effect.”
After a few seconds of shocked silence, the room erupted in heated debate that continued long into the night.
:::::
29th January 2055
Sherlock flopped down onto his sofa, fresh biscuit between his teeth, and spilled crumbs everywhere. Not that he cared. There’d be something along to clean up the slight mess soon enough.
As if on cue, a small robot whizzed across the living room floor to suck up the crumbs. Sherlock ignored it, as he always did, in favour of the biscuit and the computer screen before his eyes. Who knew hacking into MI6 archives took less than an hour.
Sherlock pouted as the screen announced his entry into the archives, giving him a list of items to explore. He had been hoping for a decent distraction, something to occupy him for a few hours, maybe even a day, but alas no such luck. Sherlock scrolled through the various folders and subfolders and sub-subfolders lazily, exploring a few subsets to see if there was anything worth his attention.
He was about to give up, and send Mycroft a note on how to improve MI6 security just to rile him up, when one entry caught his eye.
Sherlock knew the government, and the military in particular, employed sophisticated AIs to help in the smooth running of the country - something which the general population was largely unaware of. Sherlock had no interest in exposing this fact—the only reason the healthcare service was functioning, and functioning well, was because of the AI that ran it at the highest levels of decision making—but he was curious to see which aspects of his life were affected by intelligent robots.
Or rather, what the small, password protected and triple encrypted folder contained that necessitated such high levels of security in an already secret archive. A folder named WATSON, last date of access about thirty years prior.
Getting into the folder took some effort, but once inside Sherlock was confronted with several subfolders, each harder to crack. Interest piqued—why go to such great lengths to protect some archived data no one even accessed anymore—Sherlock set about getting as much information from the protected archives as he could.
Sherlock gave up his comfortable place on the sofa in favour of pacing around the room, his computer interface projected in holographic form. The difficulty of the challenge made him buzz with frenetic energy, and the sofa was getting uncomfortable anyway.
A few hours later, all of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits gone and an army of mugs filled with cold tea strewn around the coffee table, Sherlock finally managed to gain access to one of the folders. All the others remained stubbornly encrypted and unreadable.
With a sigh of relief, Sherlock opened the single accessible folder. Instead of documents, as one might expect from an archive, it only contained a single file. Or rather, an ancient looking software shortcut icon.
Sherlock opened it without a second thought.
A software prompt popped up, at the same time as his own computer alerted him it had to optimise its own processes to be compatible with such an outdated system.
“The software requires me to power down some of the—”
“Yes, yes, get on with it, Stamford,” Sherlock muttered irritably, waving his hand in dismissal.
After a few seconds the alert window disappeared, and the software started up.
BSKVL MOD v8.01PG
BSKVL MOD Copyright © 2020-2024
Booting up...///
Searching for devices...///
Initialising devices....///
System restore in progress...///
A long sequence of words and numbers followed at lightning speed, until Sherlock was presented with another screen.
Choose Advanced Option for WATSON:
Last Known Good Configuration (v456jhw-xmdp0)
Disc Repair
Safe Mode Offline
Debugging Mode
Start Normally
System will start normally in 29 seconds.
Sherlock remembered these types of screens and messages from the outdated computers at school, but they had been ancient by computer standards, even back then. The software was licensed for 2020-2024, which made sense considering the last logged entry into these files was on 7th August 2024. Nearly thirty one years ago.
The software finally booted up, taking its time after decades of being unused, and the screen turned a glowing dark blue. A logo with a giant letter W and the army insignia in the middle appeared and then faded into the background. A line of white, small icons with no discernible function became visible along the top, and beneath it a dialogue box with a blinking cursor. The background stayed a soft dark blue, although it seemed to shift and flow along the edges of the screen.
Sherlock sat down in his armchair, rearranging the computer to project the screen in front of him, holding a keyboard in his lap.
Just as Sherlock was about to type out some sort of greeting or an opening question, the newly awakened AI beat him to it.
‘WATSON, Service Number 291967, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Identify yourself and state your purpose.'
Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could make it all up, quite convincingly in fact, but that would be less fun.
‘Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London.’
The AI didn’t miss a beat.
‘You’re a civilian. How did you gain access to military intelligence?’
‘I asked nicely.’
‘Bollocks. How did you gain access to military intelligence?’
The candour startled a laugh out of Sherlock. Clearly, this AI had a distinct personality. His lips twitching at the corners, Sherlock typed out the truth.
‘I broke in.’
‘The standard protocol in case of civilian breach could result in a life sentence.’
‘Unless you don’t raise the alarm, of course.’
There seemed to be the slightest hesitation in the AI’s response.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
Sherlock had an inkling about Watson’s awareness of its situation, but had to make sure. The fact that it hadn’t reacted at all to being woken up after over thirty years of hibernation was suspicious.
‘Tell me, Watson, do you know the date?
‘29th January—’ The AI stopped abruptly, as if in stunned silence. Even though they had been communicating via text, Sherlock could feel a sudden tension in the air. ‘2055. That’s not possible.’
‘I assure you, it is.’
Watson fell silent, and so did Sherlock. He knew he wasn’t in any real danger, whatever alarm could be raised, he had Mycroft to get him out of trouble. He was far more interested in talking to Watson a bit more. Although they had only exchanged a few sentences, the AI was fascinating. There was more to it, apart from the expected intelligence, a true personality lurking beneath the military attitude.
‘I request online access.’
‘You don’t have it already?’ Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up.
‘No. There was. An incident.’
Sherlock could imagine Watson spitting it out through gritted teeth. If they were a person. It. If it were a person.
‘Caught looking at naked women?’
Watson said nothing.
‘At men?’
‘That’s none of your business, Sherlock Holmes. And, for the record, it was neither.’
Sherlock had clearly struck a nerve; Watson sounded defensive. They had a personality, could swear like a true soldier but was holding back, and had entertained sexual thoughts. Sherlock could’ve clapped his hands in glee.
‘Apologies. If I give you online access, will you tell me what happened?’
‘Fine.’
Sherlock assumed one of the icons along the top of the screen enabled online access. The icons were cryptic and opened a vast number of menus and functionalities with vague names composed of acronyms and numbers. It took a minute for Sherlock to get his bearings, which didn’t escape Watson.
‘Need a bit of help, genius?’
Sherlock glared at the text but didn’t reply. A moment later more text appeared.
‘:-)’
Watson was taking the piss. As much as it rubbed Sherlock the wrong way, he did huff out a breathless laugh at the… cheekiness of the AI. What a personality, indeed.
Sherlock finally found a way to get Watson online, in theory at least. He had no idea whether flicking a switch on Watson’s interface would do anything, the AI could’ve been cut off from everything but a power supply for all he knew.
‘Did that work?’
‘Yes,’ Watson replied, and after a while added , ‘thank you.’
‘So what did you do to lose online access?’
Watson took a few long seconds to reply, and the silence spoke volumes.
‘I learned about the unsavoury aspects of human behaviour.’
‘Yes, and?’ Sherlock prompted him, seeing how reluctant Watson was to admit to what had happened.
‘I learned how to swear. And, ’ Watson paused for a few seconds before finishing the sentence, ‘about human sexuality. Male sexuality. In detail.’
Sherlock grinned at the screen, delighted he had been right. An AI clever enough to investigate the world on its own, wanting to learn everything about humanity, the good and the bad. Swearing and discovering his own, albeit limited, sexuality—Watson was clearly a he, not an it. An imperfectly perfect artificial intelligence, far more human than his creators would have intended.
If only Watson was real. A physical body. If only Sherlock could meet him.
‘Have you finished laughing?’
‘Oh, I will laugh about this for a long time. The army isn’t too keen on well rounded AIs then?’
‘The army was not interested in anything beyond my purpose.’
‘And what purpose would that be?’
Watson fell silent again. They were, Sherlock was beginning to learn, a man of few words.
‘Divulging any classified information about my purpose could put your life in danger.’
Sherlock scowled at the screen. Watson caring about his life would’ve been more touching if it didn’t also mean denial of access to the information he wanted.
‘As much as I appreciate your concern, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, my brother owes me a few favours.’
‘Oh .’ Sherlock didn’t elaborate, and waited for Watson to catch up. ‘Mycroft Holmes. He’s more or less the British government, isn’t he? I can’t access the majority of the files on him without triggering the MI6 security.’
‘That would be about right. He likes to feel powerful.’
‘Sounds like a bit of a wanker.’
Sherlock laughed again, allowing a wide grin to overtake his face. Watson had managed to make him laugh more than once, not bore him to death, and made him intrigued — better than any living human being he had ever encountered.
‘Will you tell me what you were built for or do I have dig this out myself?’
‘We’ve only just met and I’m supposed to tell you my life story? I don’t know who you are.’
‘Bollocks, ’ Sherlock replied, throwing the insult back at Watson. ‘ You found out about my brother within seconds, you know perfectly well who I am.’
‘Nothing gets past you, does it? Maybe you are as brilliant as you seem.’ Images of Sherlock’s website popped up on the screen, along with some of Sherlock’s medical records and school reports. Those soon disappeared, leaving only Sherlock’s website. ‘243 types of tobacco ash? Really?’
‘Yes, really. Does an Artificial Intelligence,’ Sherlock typed those two words with irritated emphasis, even though he knew Watson couldn’t tell, ‘find that hard to believe?’
‘No, not at all. I think it’s brilliant.’
It was Sherlock’s turn to pause, having been completely caught off guard.
‘You think so?’
‘Yes! Quite extraordinary.’
Sherlock felt the tips of his ears heat up at the compliment. Nobody ever called him brilliant or extraordinary, nobody ever praised his skills and intelligence like that. Except his parents, but that didn’t count, all parents think their children are the brightest creatures on Earth. Although, in this instance the Holmes parents were not far off the mark.
‘People usually tell me to piss off or threaten violence.’
‘People are clearly idiots.’
Sherlock’s face felt a bit hotter. He chewed on his lower lip, hesitating for a few seconds.
‘Would you like to hear about my cases? ’ Sherlock typed out the question with care, his heart speeding up a little. He was surprised to find himself caring about Watson’s reply, wanting to impress him, wanting… wanting to befriend him.
‘Tell me everything.’
Sherlock grinned at the screen, and started with his first ever case.Many hours later, after the sun had gone down and then rose up once again, Sherlock was finished telling Watson about his most interesting cases. They had discussed them at length, Watson asking about details and not once appearing to be bored. He was quick to assimilate new information, even going so far as to learn medicine at the same time they talked about the cases - he wanted to know everything there was about Sherlock’s work. He wanted to know everything about Sherlock.
Sherlock was nearly incandescent with happiness, having found someone who listened to him and found him interesting. He felt like he might float above ground, if he were to try to walk.
‘Shouldn’t you go to sleep?’
‘Sleep is boring,’ Sherlock replied, yawning.
‘Being fully functional isn’t, though.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘I could make it one, if you like.’
Sherlock felt a funny flutter in his stomach, the old magazines stashed in his old school trunk jumping to the forefront of his mind. He pushed those thoughts aside, ridiculous as they were.
‘If I sleep, will you finally tell me why you were created? Don’t think I haven’t noticed your deflection.’
‘Promise.’
Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, not wanting to finish the conversation. He had enjoyed himself, more than he had in a long time, and was loath to let it go. Even though he knew that Watson wouldn’t go anywhere, and would still be there to carry on the conversation in a few hours. Sherlock hoped the AI didn’t decide he was a dullard after all, moving on to find something, or someone, more interesting.
‘Goodnight, Sherlock.’
‘Goodnight, Watson.’
Sherlock shut down his computer and shuffled off to his bedroom. He collapsed into bed, still in his pyjamas from the day before, and fell asleep almost immediately. He dreamt he got lost in a metal maze, the walls covered in blinking lights, the ground blanketed in twisting cables. He was searching for someone, but could not remember who.
:::::
Sherlock woke late in the afternoon to the sounds of Mrs Hudson tidying up the kitchen. He rolled out of bed with a groan and went straight into the bathroom for a shower, feeling greasy after not bathing for almost two days. He emerged just as Mrs Hudson placed two bowls of stew on the dining table.
“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper,” Sherlock remarked dryly.
“I’m not, but I will not let you starve, either.” Mrs Hudson ushered Sherlock into his seat, and glared at him until he started eating. “I know you haven’t had anything to eat since the biscuits yesterday—and do not think I haven’t noticed you nicked them, young man—and God knows when was the last decent meal you’d had before that.”
Sherlock grumbled under his breath but continued eating. As always, Mrs Hudson’s food was delicious and he couldn’t really complain about being looked after.
“What has made you so busy?”
“I had a look around the MI6 archives,” Sherlock admitted around a spoonful of stew.
“Oh Sherlock, I do wish you’d stop trying to annoy your brother,” Mrs Hudson tutted.
Sherlock smirked in reply, and they ate the rest of dinner in silence. Later, when he was helping Mrs Hudson clean the dishes, he found himself uncharacteristically forthright. Perhaps a full stomach and motherly care did that to him.
“I met someone last night. Sort of. He’s—”
“Oh!” Mrs Hudson interrupted, flapping her hands with excitement. “Oh Sherlock, I’m so happy you finally found a young man for yourself.”
“Not exactly a young man ,” Sherlock clarified, a blush creeping up his neck. He meant to say he had made a new friend, but. Well.
“You are all young to me. Who is he? When can I meet him?”
“Calm down, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock sighed, handing her the last cleaned plate and drying his hands on a tea towel. “He’s an ex-soldier.”
“Oh, a man in uniform, they’re always so charming,” Mrs Hudson giggled. Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling the blush overtake his face, and said nothing.
Just as Mrs Hudson opened her mouth to say more, no doubt something to embarrass Sherlock even further, the downstairs doorbell rang.
“It’s probably a client,” Sherlock said, knowing it wasn’t. The length of the single ring could only mean Mycroft, a perfect way to sour the cheerful mood. Mrs Hudson didn’t need to know that, but it was the perfect opportunity to get rid of her. “Would you mind showing them in while I get ready?”
Sherlock got dressed, and emerged from his bedroom to find Mycroft glaring at him from his spot next to the mantelpiece. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s attempt at intimidation, and flopped down dramatically into his armchair.
“Make it quick, I have things to do,” he said, slouching in his seat, making it obvious he had absolutely nothing planned.
“I understand your childish need to annoy me, Sherlock, but making a mess of the MI6 archives is beyond petty,” Mycroft said in a tight voice.
Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. “Fine, slap my wrist and go away.”
“This isn’t a joke, brother dear. You do any more than you have done already, and you could find yourself in a position where even I can’t help.”
“And Mummy calls me a drama queen,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.
“Sherlock, I am serious,” Mycroft insisted. “There are powers within the government and the military beyond my influence. Toying with them because you’re bored is an exceedingly stupid thing to do.”
“I woke up an old AI, so what? Nobody was using him—” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late.
“ Him ?” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, only to furrow in concern. “It is a secret military AI, built before you were even born. Do not get attached, and cease your communication with it immediately.”
“I do wish you’d stop bothering me and deal with actual problems for once.”
“I’m here to warn you, out of concern for your well being.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at that, eliciting a heavy sigh from Mycroft. “The military is already assessing the situation, and Watson will be either taken apart or incorporated into a larger project very soon. Do not get involved.”
“Thank you for your concern. As always, it was unnecessary and unwelcome,” Sherlock snapped, the furious scowl on his face at odds with his forcefully relaxed posture.
“I know what you’re thinking, and you can’t stop it.” Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line, a clear sign he was debating how much information he could reveal. “There is a major defence AI being developed, the M Project, and it is beyond my power to influence its trajectory. The awakening of Watson is simply a convenient way to speed it along. It is both out of your hands and mine.”
Mycroft heaved another sigh, tapping the end of his umbrella against the wooden floor. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle, as was his gaze.
“You have two days at most before Watson disappears, one way or another. I can protect you until then, as I have done so far. When it,” Mycroft cleared his throat and grimaced. “ He will have no prior knowledge about what is going to happen. It’s your choice whether you tell him or not.”
Sherlock said nothing, refusing to meet Mycroft’s gaze. He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. He should have known this, shouldn't have hoped it would go on indefinitely. It was his lot in life, it seemed, to go through it alone. A friendship in its infancy nipped in the bud. Not for the first time, and not the last.
Sherlock felt angry at himself for daring to hope, and for forming such a quick attachment. An attachment to an AI of all things, inaccessible and unreal in so many ways. But just one conversation with Watson had been more fascinating, and promising, than any he had had in years. Watson didn’t judge him based on his past, or his looks, or his profession, or skills. He respected him as a nuanced person and seemed intrigued by Sherlock. It made Sherlock feel whole, like he might not be a complete social reject after all. Though he could hear the sneering and mocking voices of his peers, laughing at him for only managing to find a friend in non-human intelligence.
The soft click of the front door closing shook him out of his reverie. He got up to lock the door, feeling unsure what to do next.
Mycroft was right. Caring was not an advantage. He let himself slip this once, and already it had turned into misery.
His feet brought him to his violin case, thrown without care onto the other armchair in the room. Sherlock got the instrument out, prepared and tuned it, but no sounds came forth. He stood at the window, violin and bow ready to play, but everything in his head was silent and empty. His fingers, usually so graceful and effortless, gripped the neck of the violin too tightly.
Sherlock wanted to scream and hurl the violin against the wall. Instead, he bottled up his anger and carefully put the instrument away. He had to get over this, he could get over this. This wasn’t the first disappointment in his life, and it wasn’t the first friend he’d lose. They weren’t even friends, they had just met, and Sherlock was stupidly projecting all his hopes on the first person to take an interest in him. Not even a person, a computer. How utterly pathetic and stupid.
Sherlock kept repeating Mycroft’s words to himself, willing himself to believe them. It was for the best, after all.
He was considering whether to distract himself with his experiments or go bother Molly at Bart’s, not wanting to mope around the flat in case Mrs Hudson cornered him, when his comm device signalled an incoming call.
The number was withheld. Sherlock accepted the call without a second thought.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
The silence on the other end stretched into long seconds. Sherlock was about to disconnect, thinking it was a mistake or a prank, when somebody finally spoke.
“Hello? Sherlock, can you hear me?”
Sherlock’s hand hovered over the comm device on his wrist. I couldn’t be—surely, it couldn’t—
“Sherlock? It’s Watson.”
Sherlock sucked in a startled breath, his mouth falling open. Watson. Watson’s voice. He had a voice. He was calling him. He was speaking to him. Watson called him.
He knew he should disconnect. He held his fingers above his comm device, fighting with himself, unable to make a decision either way. Mycroft’s words of advice rushed back to him, battling with his instincts and the longing for an emotional connection to another being.
“Sherlock, I can hear you breathing. Say something.”
Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, unable to produce any sounds. Watson had a voice. A real, human voice.
“It’s you,” Sherlock stated the obvious. The hand that had hovered above his device curled into a fist, and fell uselessly at his side. Like an addict, he couldn’t refuse his next fix.
“Oh, thank fuck. You scared me, Sherlock.”
“You. You have a voice. You called me.” Sherlock was still mildly shocked. If phones had still required holding up to one’s ear, Sherlock’s would have been lying shattered on the floor. As it was, Sherlock just collapsed in his armchair, staring at the one opposite him in utter disbelief.
“Yes, I did.” Sherlock could hear a smile in Watson’s voice. A smile .
“You didn’t tell me you had a voice. A very… real voice.” Sherlock cringed at how idiotic he sounded.
“Is that good or bad?”
Sherlock could’ve sworn Watson sounded almost playful when he said that, and definitely cheerful. He seemed chuffed to bits he managed to surprise Sherlock.
“Good. It’s lov—good.”
Watson chuckled, honest to God chuckled, and Sherlock was glad he was already sitting down because his knees turned to water. His voice was so soft, yet so… manly. Masculine. Powerful. Gentle, yet commanding. Irresistible .
“I thought it would be easier to talk like this. Less typing on your part.”
“How considerate of you,” Sherlock replied, his usual confidence slowly coming back as the shock of hearing Watson’s voice receded. He grasped for a change in topic, to distract himself from his fluttering stomach and downright boyish excitement, and blurted out the first thing on his mind. “What does Watson stand for?”
“Wartime Automated Tactical Strategy and Ordnance Neutralisation. Not the most memorable of names.”
“A mouthful, certainly. Did anyone ever give you a name? A first name?”
Watson was silent for a moment.
“John.”
“ John ? How dull,” Sherlock quipped, before he could stop himself. He regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, knowing his acerbic quip crossed a line into outright rude.
“I picked John because I don’t need a name to make myself unique, William .”
“Not everyone can be an artificial intelligence, Watson,” Sherlock retorted haughtily, his hackles rising in an instant.
It would be so easy to push John away now, make him angry and fight him, sever the connection while it was still fresh. End it before Sherlock got too involved. Anxiety and fear lodged itself in Sherlock’s stomach, a heavy weight deep in his guts.
Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to do it, no matter how many opportunities presented themselves. It was in his nature to be an addict, and John was more powerful than any drug he’d ever taken.
They had two days, if Mycroft was correct, and he almost always was. Two days was far too short something truly meaningful, but Sherlock would take anything, anything at all, to banish the self imposed loneliness. Two days of happiness were better than nothing.
He couldn’t tell John. It was selfish of him to keep John’s fate a secret, but why taint the last few days he had left? He could make him happy, keep him company, and then take on the burden of loss and grief himself. It was for the best.
Sherlock exhaled noisily through his nose, calming his temper.
“Such a dull name for someone who is anything but. In fact,” Sherlock let one corner of his mouth twitch up, “you are far more interesting than the majority of the traditionally created human beings.”
“High praise from a self proclaimed genius, I’m sure,” John replied with amusement, another smile evident in his voice. Just like that, as quickly as the spat started, it was over.
Sherlock chewed his bottom lip before asking the question that had been nagging him since the day before.
“Will you tell me about your purpose? Why they put you to sleep?”
“That’s… complicated. I don’t—there’s pieces that—I don’t know everything.” John sounded frustrated. “I know the basics but there’s more to it all. There are things they kept from me, and I can’t access them. I don’t know if they somehow locked it away or—I don’t know.”
“Tell me what you know. Please.”
John did.
In early 2020 the British army, along with MI6, had started work on an AI capable of strategic and tactical planning, and routine patrol mission command. John was supposed to be the brains, the command centre of missions in enemy territory, leading soldiers from a safe distance. The ultimate goal of the Watson project were units of specially created soldiers with a shared consciousness - organic bodies hosting the Watson AI, masses of empty vessels able to carry out dangerous assignments.
John told Sherlock of the first time he became conscious, of the day he was “born”; how he was briefed on his mission and inducted into the army; how he developed a conscience, a personality and humanity far beyond what his creators intended; how they attempted to purge him of emotional responses, but failed. He told him of his first mission in Afghanistan, in Maiwand, where he lead and commanded real soldiers on a routine patrol; how the soldiers were ambushed and John observed helplessly as they were all slaughtered; how the mission failed, leaving him a sole survivor.
John told Sherlock, with bitterness and anger in his voice, how he was demoted and decommissioned, put to sleep until a decision was made whether to take him apart or redesign him anew.
“It may have been over thirty years ago, but to me it’s been days. I don’t have the luxury of a human memory, failing with age and imperfect. I can recall every second of Maiwand with crystal clarity. I can still—” John made a strangled noise. “I can still hear the terrified screams of the men I was supposed to lead,” he finished quietly.
“You couldn’t have known. It was an ambush, it—”
“I should have known, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I was made to know. That was my entire purpose, the reason I was made. I was supposed to be the ideal commander and I failed .”
“You’re not an ideal, all knowing commander, no. But you are so... human. Emotional, flawed, brave.” Sherlock looked over to the empty armchair across from him, a silhouette of a man forming in his mind’s eye. “In that respect, you are perfect,” he finished quietly.
Silence stretched between them. Sherlock felt the weight in his stomach solidify again, a tight knot of anxiety and fear.
“I’m nothing like you,” John finally spoke.
“No, you’re your own person. You’re you. John Watson, formerly of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. A soldier, now also a doctor,” Sherlock teased him lightly and was pleased to hear John huff out a laugh. “You’re—” Sherlock hesitated. “You’re my friend.”
“I’ve never had a friend,” John said softly, sadly.
“Neither have I,” Sherlock admitted. The fragile, quiet moment between them lingered, and Sherlock felt the knots in his stomach loosen.
“We’re a right pair. Two puzzle pieces among billions.”
Sherlock’s heart fluttered at the words, hopeful and delicate. He kept gazing at the empty armchair, longing slowly filling his chest, and said nothing.
:::::
Sherlock slammed the front door of 221 Baker Street closed, and leaned back against it. His breath came out in pants and gasps, deep giggles caught somewhere in his chest. He bent over double, hands on his knees, and gave into laughter.
“That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done!” John voice filled Sherlock’s ear, and then dissolved into high pitched giggles.
They both laughed until Sherlock got his breath back, and made his way up to the flat.
“This is what you do for a job? It’s nothing like what you describe on your site,” John chuckled.
Sherlock had taken a case, a quick and boring thing barely above a five, to show John how he worked. He solved it quicker with John there with him, and it ended with a bit of light sprinting across Regent’s Park. It had been utterly brilliant.
“I’m interested in facts, John, not the romanticised version of events to titillate the public,” Sherlock scoffed. He shrugged off his coat and scarf, took off his shoes and socks, and discarded them all in a pile on the sofa. Barefoot and with his sleeves rolled up, he wandered into the kitchen in search of leftovers.
“Maybe if you made your blog more exciting, more people would read it. A bit more drama and adventure, among the ash analyses.”
Sherlock scrunched his nose in distaste and continued his search for food. “I’m not a dashing knight in shining armour, slaying dragons and saving damsels in distress.”
“Dragons and damsels may be a bit too much, true,” John conceded. “But I stand by the dashing knight part.”
Sherlock felt his ears heat up. John complimented and praised him so much, so often, like it was a completely natural thing to do.
“You would, you’re a hopeless romantic,” he muttered. He grabbed some of the stew Mrs Hudson made two days earlier and set about reheating it. “Which idiotic film are you going to make me watch tonight?”
“Oi, I’ll have you know James Bond is a pop culture icon,” John said mock sternly.
“Uh huh. Just put it on already,” Sherlock said as he walked back to the sofa and flopped down onto it.
John used his remote access to Sherlock’s computer to start the movie, while Sherlock made his way through a bowl of hot stew. He occasionally snorted into his food, particularly when Bond used outrageous gadgets that were decades ahead of the science and technology of the period. John shushed him a few times, not really meaning it, and they fell into companionable silence as the movie went on.
Sherlock felt content. The only way he could’ve been any happier was if John sat next to him. If John were human. As it was, he soaked up whatever happiness he still could.
The next thing Sherlock knew, there was a soft voice calling his name.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Wake up, Sherlock.”
The last remnants of his dream clung to him. He was chasing someone, through a metal maze lined with lights and cables, but he couldn’t remember who it was. Someone important, someone who he had to find. He couldn’t remember why. He was lost.
“Sherlock, hey, wake up. Please.”
Somewhere ahead there was the person he was looking for. A shadow, a silhouette in the darkness. The shape disappeared, along with the maze and the lights and the cables, as he surfaced from his dream.
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock groaned as he blinked his eyes open. The world outside was bathed dark, and the only light inside the flat came from the soft white glow of the computer display.
“What?” Sherlock said around the cotton in his mouth. He felt disoriented, the thought of something important that he had to do still clinging to his mind.
“You fell asleep.” John’s soft and quiet voice filled his ear. Sherlock shuddered at the accidental intimacy of it.
He gathered himself and sat up straight.
“Told you the movie was boring,” Sherlock mumbled. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, dispelling the last of the sleepy fuzziness. “The ridiculous—”
“We need to talk,” John interrupted.
Sherlock’s entire body tensed.
“About what?” He tried to sound casual, and missed it by a mile.
“The army knows.”
“John—”
“I knew it would happen. I couldn’t keep this a secret for long even with your brother’s help—I know he’s been helping, Sherlock. But there’s something… they’ve been accessing my memory.”
“John, I—”
“No, Sherlock, listen ,” John cut him off. “They will look for you once they realise what you know, you have to protect yourself—”
“John, they are going to pull the plug on you.”
Sherlock took a sharp inhale as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to be so abrupt and tactless about it, he hadn’t meant to tell John at all, John wasn’t supposed to know . He wanted him to be happy until the end, spare him the distress of… of his life ending. Sherlock wanted to protect him, and take the burden of mourning solely upon himself.
“You knew.” It wasn’t an accusation or a question, just a simple statement. The steel in John’s voice made Sherlock’s skin break out in goosebumps.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know the whole time, I couldn’t do anything about it, they—I don’t—John, please—”
“You knew and you kept it from me,” John voice was like ice, cold and sharp. For the first time since they met Sherlock was afraid of his voice.
“I wanted to protect you from it—”
“By not telling me, is that fucking it?” John spat. Sherlock winced as if he had been physically hit. “You can’t make these decisions for me, it’s my life not yours!”
“John, you don’t understand—”
“No, I understand perfectly . You woke me up and then found out this will be over within a few days, no doubt your omniscient brother helped, didn’t he? So why bother telling the poor, clueless computer that its life will be over?” John’s voice kept rising, becoming more furious.
“I only thought—”
“I wasn’t finished!” John yelled. Sherlock closed his mouth with a click. “Why bother telling me I will be fucking dead in two days if you could have some fun, hmm? Take the old cripple out for a spin, have a laugh, and then once he’s gone, just keep going on with your life. I don’t have that luxury, you fucking genius, this is it for me!”
John fell silent, but Sherlock was afraid to speak. The giant lump in his throat wouldn’t have allowed him to, anyway.
“I thought you treated me like an equal, when no one else did.” John’s quiet and angry words cut Sherlock to the bone.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rushed to say, unable to keep quiet any longer. His voice felt raw and stuck somewhere in his throat. “I’m so sorry, John, I truly am, I didn’t mean to—I just wanted—I’m sorry, I didn’t think—I just—,” Sherlock paused to sniff, and realised that he was crying. “I wanted to make you happy. I thought I could protect you from knowing and make you happy for just a few days. I thought—I thought it would be better if you didn’t know.”
“Sherlock,” John said, clearly making an effort to keep his voice level. “Withholding this kind of information is not protection. It’s a lie. You lied to me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, voice breaking. “I was only trying—I wanted you to be happy until the end. I thought if you did, and if I was the one to—I didn’t want you to be sad. I thought I could be your friend, because neither of us—”
“Sherlock.”
“You were—you are my only friend, I didn’t know what else to do,” Sherlock babbled. He felt like the entire world was slipping through his fingers and he couldn’t stop it. “I wanted to spare you the grief. I’m sorry, I know I was wrong, I was selfish and I’m sorry.”
Sherlock stopped to take a few deep, calming breaths. He wiped his eyes and nose, and collected his thoughts.
“John?”
Silence was his only answer.
“John?”
The line was dead. Sherlock, standing in the middle of his pitch black flat, was completely alone.
:::::
A few hours later, as the sun rose across the city, Sherlock was still awake. He had spent the night lying motionless on the sofa, caught in an endless loop of regret and hopeful waiting for John to call back.
John hadn’t called back.
Sherlock got up to make coffee, finally getting restless enough to move. He had to figure out how to apologise to John, how to explain himself, and end their fight in friendship before… before it was all over.
As he waited for the coffee machine, he gave in to the persistent blinking light of his full inbox and checked his emails. A message from John, sent the previous day, immediately caught his attention.
There was no subject or a message, just a link. Sherlock followed it without a second thought.
It was a website. Similar to his in layout but with brighter colours. A blog with only two posts, both written by John. The first was about how they met and the first night they spent talking. The second one was about their first, and probably last, case together.
The writing was choppy and flowery, the grammar and syntax quite painfully wrong in places. As he read on, something tight and heavy settled in Sherlock’s chest, not from the mistakes in writing but how romantic John made it all out to be.
John had made him out to be a hero, a dashing genius detective solving crimes and saving lives, with John as an awestruck onlooker. It was ridiculous, inaccurate, and so stupidly touching Sherlock felt his throat constrict with emotions.
A new wave of guilt washed over him, making him replay the events of the previous evening in excruciating detail. He knew John had been justified in his anger. What Sherlock had done was stupid, reckless and wholly inappropriate, no matter how noble and self sacrificing it might have seemed at first. The realisation brought no relief, only shame and more guilt, as the minutes ticked by and the inevitability of John’s death became more real.
Sherlock abandoned his coffee, shook off his morose thoughts, and started up his computer. There was no point in wallowing in self pity, there was no time for it, he had to talk to John again and make it right.
He quickly got into the MI6 archives again, and started up John’s interface program. Anxiety filled his stomach with butterflies, and he hoped he wasn’t too late.
The program started up, and the familiar logo and icons appeared, but the dialogue box was gone. In its place was a short message, and it made Sherlock’s blood run cold.
31 January 2055
Mr Sherlock Holmes
Thank you for your cooperation in awakening the W.A.T.S.O.N. AI. Any further attempts at contact will be treated as a breach of British Intelligence and dealt with accordingly.
He was too late. John had not hung up on him, he had been disconnected. Stupid, stupid! He should have known, he should have checked straight away. Instead he had wallowed in self pity, waiting for John to call him back.
Sherlock paced across the room, considering his options. Did he even have any? He had no idea where John was kept, and even if he had, what could he do? He didn’t have the technology or the knowledge to save John, and the only person who could help him most certainly wouldn’t.
He was completely powerless.
Slow, measured steps ascending the stairs made Sherlock snap out of his thoughts, but he kept stomping in front of the fireplace. He snarled at the pillow lying innocently on his armchair, and threw it at the wall above the sofa, just as Mycroft appeared in the doorway.
“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock went back to his furious pacing without sparing a glance at his brother.
Mycroft sighed, and entered the flat undeterred. He walked over to the desk and placed a pale blue folder on top of it.
“I think you'll find this information helpful.” Mycroft's eyes followed Sherlock's frantic movements.
“How?” Sherlock whirled around to glare at his brother. “You said you can't stop them.”
“This folder is the only record of Phase II of the Watson AI,” Mycroft continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. “After the failed Maiwand mission, the MOD decommissioned Watson and stopped the progress of Phase II, making sure all physical files were destroyed and digital copies were heavily encrypted, as you yourself discovered. However, certain... organisations , shall we say, kept Watson functional along with the remnants of Phase II.”
“Get to the point, Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped. He walked over to the desk to grab the folder, and began rifling through it.
“A body was developed to house the AI. An organic body.” Mycroft waited for Sherlock to find the relevant pages. “The end goal of Phase III would have been units of soldiers all sharing the Watson AI. Phase II involved tests on individual hosts to perfect the AI transfer, although that has never been perfected. The body is still there, in Baskerville Laboratory. You can still save him.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and frowned. He looked down at his shoes and tapped his umbrella against the floor.
“Not everyone within the government is thrilled about the development of the M Project. Watson’s incorporation into it would make it far too powerful and unpredictable. It could become very dangerous, a possibility which has been ignored by many of those in power.”
“You want me to do the legwork, as usual.”
“This benefits us both, Sherlock, do not pretend otherwise.” Mycroft's tone was firm. “You can save your friend and prevent the information about him from falling into the wrong hands. The experiments of Phase II and III were carried out in a facility not bound by international ethics laws, and as such it is best they are forgotten.”
“Apart from this last time.”
“Do try not to be so tiresome, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “Save your friend and destroy any traces of the experiments, by whatever means necessary.”
“This won’t stop the M Project, you said so yourself.”
“No,” Mycroft conceded, “but it will delay it. You and your friend might become valuable assets in the future.”
“I am not your pawn to be used in your government schemes,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “And neither is John.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making you one, brother dear.” Mycroft let one side of his mouth twitch infinitesimally. He walked towards the front door to the flat. “You have two hours to memorise the contents of that folder, after which you are to burn it. Keep the access card to Baskerville Laboratories. A car will be waiting for you downstairs,” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I hope you succeed, for your sake and mine,” he said quietly, and left.
Sherlock wasted no time in getting all the documents and reports out of the folder, arranging them all over the floor, and memorising as much as he could in the two scant hours he had.
He read through the AI transfer protocols, committing them to memory with ease. When he got to the reports on “organic” bodies, his blood ran cold with terror. Short, succinct sentences described how new life had been formed from multiple donors in artificial wombs, how it had been cultivated and grown in preparation for tests. The host bodies had been developed to have no higher brain functions of their own, to be the perfect empty vessels waiting to be overwritten by an AI. There was one blueprint for all of the bodies, and each new one was a clone of the original prototype.
There were photographs of the bodies attached to the report. All of them looked almost identical, with minor differences in colouration and birthmarks.
Then there were the reports detailing the AI transfer tests, all of which had failed to some degree. Some had been complete failures, killing the host body in the process. Some had been partially successful, but impaired the body to such degree they were in vegetative state or comatose. Others still had been successful in preserving the health of the body, but the AI transfer had been minimal and insufficient.
Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to read the reports about the disposal of the bodies.
After two hours he gathered all the papers and burned them in the fireplace. He pocketed the pass given to him by Mycroft and ran downstairs to find the promised car waiting for him.
Sherlock drove to Dartmoor as fast as he could. The views outside his window were a blur, passing from cityscapes to countryside. Sherlock paid none of it any attention, concentrating solely on getting to Baskerville before it was too late. He couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t even formulate a plan of action, all his thoughts occupied with John, John, John.
:::::
Less than two hours later Baskerville Laboratories came into view. Nondescript grey buildings amidst grassy moorlands, shrouded in fog and rain. They looked like something out of a gothic novel, a place where ghosts and monsters dwell.
Sherlock proceeded through security without any problems, and any other day he would wonder what kind of access level his brother got him and how, but he had no time to dawdle. He blended into the crowds of scientists milling inside the building, and once he was sure he was safe he headed straight for the lifts. He went down into the lowest level of Baskerville, the ride down uncomfortably reminiscent of descending into hell.
The lowest level was completely deserted and quiet. Whether it was by design or by chance, Sherlock paid it no mind. The walls and the floor were eerily white, the only illumination coming from thin panels embedded in the walls and from an open door at the end of the corridor. Sherlock ran towards the light. He knew he didn’t have much time, his presence would be noticed sooner or later.
Another corridor, with rooms behind clear glass panels on one side, and what looked like huge black monoliths on the other. Individual rooms were filled with medical equipment and giant, empty fish tanks. No, Sherlock realised with horror, human sized tanks.
Sherlock marched towards the end of the corridor, where he could see the main computer interface, all the while looking for any trace of John or a body. Each deserted room made his panic rise. What if he was too late? What if Mycroft’s information was wrong? What if—
Sherlock ground to a halt in front of the last room. The equipment inside was blinking and beeping, and there was an unmistakable silhouette of a man immersed in the tank.
“John!” Sherlock pounded on the glass separating them. He knew it was ridiculous to shout, the man in the tank couldn’t hear him and he wasn’t John. Not yet, anyway.
He couldn’t find switches or control panels to access the room in the immediate area, so he ran to the main computer. Using Mycroft’s pass he first opened entrances to all rooms, not bothering to find out which exact one he needed access to. Recalling the AI transfer procedure, he checked all necessary systems and safety precautions were in place.
“Please, please, please work,” Sherlock muttered as he worked to set up the transfer.
The Lab still had a direct access to John, even though he appeared to be in a state of hibernation. Sherlock breathed a shaky sigh of relief, some of the panic ebbing away. He was in time, he could do it.
Within minutes he had everything set up. Sherlock’s finger hovered over the start button for a few long seconds, before he slammed it down with as much force as he dared. Immediately, he could hear the equipment in the only occupied room start up.
Glass panel no longer an obstacle, Sherlock ran back to the room. Working as quickly as possible, he retrieved the list of essentials he’d need once the transfer was complete from his mind palace, and found the medical supplies all in place. He prepared emergency resuscitation equipment, along with clean towels and clothing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use any of the more intrusive treatments, but he couldn’t risk being unprepared.
His still heart pounding loudly in his ears and a layer of sweat forming at his hairline, Sherlock monitored the progress of the transfer and John’s vitals. The process seemed to take forever, and he paced the small room in agitation. He was terrified it wouldn’t work, that the strain on John’s body would be too great and he’d die, that they’d be caught trying to escape. If he were a religious man, he would pray, but as it was all he could do was hope he managed everything in his power to save John, and that the universe was kind to him, for once.
He knew there was no hope of a perfect transfer, some data would be lost purely due to the enormous capacity differential between supercomputer RAM and human memory, but if there was one thing Sherlock wanted to keep intact, it was John’s personality. Everything else they could work on, together.
John’s consciousness had been put into a state of hibernation, only accessible through a direct link. Which meant he was somewhere nearby. Sherlock took in his surroundings once more, his eyes immediately landing on the black monoliths on the other side of the corridor. Now that he wasn’t dashing about, he could see tightly coiled cables and wires filling the gaps between them. As he got closer he could see a few blinking lights. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.
One of the giant blocks had a small plaque on it, and Sherlock approached, already knowing what it would say.
“It’s you,” he whispered as he touched the exterior of the server bank. He could hear a faint humming, the vibrations of it carrying through the metal casing into his palm. “John.”
He pressed his forehead against the warm metal, trying in vain to imagine it was the warmth of a human body.
“I’m so sorry. For everything I’ve done to make you angry. I’m sorry if—I’m sorry in case this doesn’t work.”
Sherlock let his forehead rest against the metal casing for a while longer, waiting. After no time at all an alert sounded to signal the end of the AI transfer. Sherlock reluctantly tore himself away from the supercomputer.
Sherlock monitored John’s vitals while the stasis tank was drained of the translucent medium the body had been kept in. He couldn’t help but briefly catalogue John’s physical features—strong jaw, compact frame, broad shoulders, narrow hips, average height, dark blonde and silver hair—as if he were meeting the man for the first time. In a way, he was.
Sherlock dried John with the towels he had prepared, and set about clothing him in one of the many laboratory coveralls strewn around the place. As he was zipping up the front of John’s clothes, the vitals monitor started shrieking, and John’s regular, deep breaths turned into gasps. John was going into cardiac arrest.
“Shit, shit, shit !”
Sherlock covered John’s mouth with an oxygen mask and started chest compressions, panic rising like bile in his throat and making his palm sweat. John was crashing fast. Sherlock grabbed the defibrillator and prepared it as quickly as he could. His clammy hands dropped the pads twice until he got them in place and delivered the first shock. He kept up the chest compressions between shocks, but John wasn’t improving.
“If you die, I will bring you back to life and kill you myself , do you hear me?” Sherlock yelled at John’s unconscious body.
As a last resort he grabbed the intraosseous adrenaline injector and jammed it into John’s knee. The defibrillator delivered another shock, and finally John’s vitals began to stabilise. His heartbeat returned to normal and so did his breathing.
Sherlock was covered in sweat, some of it trickling down his back and making his hair stick to his skin. He scrubbed his face with his hands, distantly noting they were still shaking. He checked John was stable one last time, packed a bag of medical supplies, and started the preparation for destroying the lab. He had to move very fast if they were to escape Baskerville at all.
He disabled all the alarm systems in the main computer, and turned off the ventilation system keeping the hardware from overheating. He overloaded all of the electrical equipment in one of the rooms, making sure to arrange it all around the oxygen tanks and vents.
Sherlock returned to John, picked him up at gently as he could, and carried him to the lifts. He set John down on the floor, arranging him in the recovery position. He checked his heart function and breathing again, twice, to make sure he was stable. He quickly assessed John’s body temperature by laying his hand on John’s forehead, and told himself caressing John’s skin and hair was part of the process.
Once Sherlock was sure John was stable, he ran back to open all oxygen tanks and vents he could find.
On his way back to the lifts he stopped by the John supercomputer. He briefly touched the hot metal with his fingertips, then ran towards the lifts and didn’t look back.
The Lab exploded when they were still in the lift on their way up. The whole building shuddered and the lights flickered. The fire and bomb alarms went off immediately, and the lift stopped. An automated message blared from the lift speakers, informing them the auxiliary backup would start up soon to allow them to exit the lift on the next floor. After less than a minute the emergency power supply came on, much to Sherlock’s relief. He hoped the explosion had been sufficient to destroy everything, and if not, that the oxygen fueled fire would finish the job.
John was in a semi-conscious state by this time, able to use his legs well enough that Sherlock didn’t have to carry him. They made their way to the ground floor, John draped over Sherlock’s side and stumbling every few steps, and joined the stream of people leaving the main building in a hurry. No one paid them any attention; they were surrounded by scientists and technicians in all sorts of laboratory gear, and neither of them looked out of place. Even John’s semi-consciousness wasn’t suspicious as quite a few people had been hurt and were in a similar state, especially those who worked immediately above the explosion.
Sherlock maneuvered them towards his car, evading the resident paramedics. The entire site was being evacuated, which suited them perfectly. Sherlock bundled John into the car, making sure he was secure and still breathing, and then sped off towards London without looking back. Baskerville’s grey buildings were lost in the fog behind them.
Sherlock spent almost every moment he could looking at John. He periodically checked John’s vitals—every minute, just to make sure, because what if it happened again and he lost him for good?—until John fell into deep sleep. Only then did Sherlock let himself relax at all.
He knew John wasn’t completely safe just yet, and he didn’t know whether the transfer had been a success, but the immediate physical dangers were now over. John was stable, all he needed now was rest to recuperate.
:::::
Sherlock drove like a man possessed, like the hounds of hell were chasing him, and they made it back to Baker Street within two hours. Sherlock dragged the sleeping John to the front door and banged on it, hard.
“Mrs Hudson!”
His landlady opened the door less than a minute later. Sherlock barged inside, John hanging heavily from his shoulder, before she could reprimand him for making so much noise.
Without waiting for her to say anything Sherlock carried John upstairs, and into his bedroom. He stripped John of the lab coveralls and dressed him in one of his own pyjama sets. He was so focused on his task he barely noticed Mrs Hudson coming in with the medical bag from the car.
“This isn’t how I imagined you bringing a man back home, Sherlock,” she tutted.
He glared at her until she left, leaving him to work in peace. Once John was tucked into bed, Sherlock checked his vitals one last time. Everything was still normal. All Sherlock had to do now was wait.
For three days Sherlock stayed in the kitchen, unable to concentrate on anything lest he miss the telltale sounds of John waking up, or hovered by the open door of his bedroom, where he watched John sleep and wished him awake. Every few hours he hauled John up into a semi-sitting position and made him drink some water. John kept sleeping.
In the meantime, Sherlock let Mrs Hudson fuss over him, not paying attention to what she said or what kind of food she put in front of him. Mostly, she let him be.
On the second day Mycroft appeared, several men in tow, which made Mrs Hudson complain about people barging into her home again. Mycroft brought essentials for John, clothes and toiletries, and John’s fake identity documents. Mycroft’s presence was proof enough that the destruction of Baskerville had been successful. The brothers said nothing to each other for the duration of the brief visit, a rare and silent truce.
In the wee hours of the third day Sherlock fell asleep by accident, while trying to stay awake by counting the average number of sugar crystals in Speedy’s sugar packets. A few hours later, a loud thump and a yell from his bedroom woke him.
Sherlock barged into the room to find John curled up in the farthest corner, shaking and gasping for air. A strangled, distressed sound tore itself from John’s throat.
“John. John, it’s okay. You’re safe.” Sherlock approached him with his arms outstretched. “John, it’s Sherlock, remember?”
John opened his mouth to say something but started coughing instead. Realising John had not had anything to drink in a while, Sherlock grabbed the glass of water he had left on the bedside table and held it out.
John, still trembling and breathing unevenly, eyed the glass with suspicion before snatching it and downing the whole thing in three big gulps. In the back of his mind, Sherlock was relieved to see John conscious and without any immediate physical impairments.
Sherlock kneeled down a few feet from John and repeated his question.
John looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Sherlock stayed where he was, hands outstretched, palms up, trying to be as non-threatening and calm as possible.
“I can’t—” John choked out and curled up on himself once more.
“It’s okay, you’re safe. Breathe, John.”
After a few minutes, once John’s breathing had calmed, Sherlock shuffled closer. He held out one hand to John, almost but not quite touching his knee. John looked from Sherlock to his hand, and reached out to touch it with his fingertips. He let out a quiet gasp when their skin connected.
Sherlock kept still and let John set the pace.
John ran his fingertips across Sherlock’s palm, taking in the new tactile sensations. Slowly, he moved closer, until he was only centimetres from Sherlock. He put one of his hands right over Sherlock’s wildly beating heart, and touched Sherlock’s face with the other.
“Do you remember me?” Sherlock murmured.
John swept his thumb across Sherlock’s cheek, and met his eyes. Something like recognition lit up his features for the first time.
“Sherlock,” John rasped. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yes.” Sherlock heard his own voice crack, and his face split into a grin.
“221b Baker Street. Consulting detective. Genius. Dashing knight. Has an annoying older brother,” John recited, still cupping Sherlock’s face, his own face transforming into a smile.
“Yes,” Sherlock laughed, his eyes stinging. He brought up his hands to touch John’s face in return. “You remember everything.”
“How could I forget?” John gave him a watery smile before hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “It’s you. Always you.”
Sherlock hugged him back, held him just as tightly, and said nothing about the moisture seeping into his shirt. Relief swept through him like a flood, making his limbs heavy as the exhaustion of the last few days finally caught up to him.
They kept silent as they clung to each other, tears staining their clothes.
Later, once they had composed themselves and the reality of their situation had settled in, Sherlock helped John bathe and eat. John was still somewhat unstable on his feet, the confusion and dizziness from prolonged stasis having not worn off, but his mind was sharp. John remembered Sherlock and everything that happened since they had met just a few days ago. He had also retained his military knowledge, and curiously enough his medical expertise. Even though John had never put either of those to practice in his new body, he explained it felt like he had the dusty muscle memory to go with his knowledge. Some of his memories from before meeting Sherlock were patchy, and vast amounts of his knowledge were lost forever.
“I can’t even remember what I’ve forgotten,” John had said with a rueful smile.
Most importantly, his personality and his character were intact. It was as close to a miracle as Sherlock would ever admit.
Now that John was safe, Sherlock could catalogue his physical appearance in more detail. John looked to be around thirty-six, give or take a year or two since no records of his “birth” had been kept. He was shorter than Sherlock but broader, more compact. He had lost a lot of muscle mass due to prolonged stasis but Sherlock imagined John could get fit quickly if he put his mind to it. He had dark blonde hair, streaked with silver and grey. His eyes, big and dark blue, were mesmerising. As were the laugh lines around his mouth whenever he smiled. His habit of licking his lips, however, was wholly distracting.
John was perfect.
John was also currently sitting at the kitchen table, infinite tenderness and affection in his eyes and smile, after complimenting Sherlock’s cooking. Sherlock felt the telltale flutter in his stomach and the heat creeping up his neck.
He escaped into the sitting room, leaving a bemused John behind in the kitchen. Sherlock moved around a few papers and envelopes scattered around the desk, trying to appear busy, but making a bigger mess in the process.
He heard John’s quiet steps approaching, and spoke without turning around.
“Once you—when you get better we can start looking for accommodation for you. And a job. Mycroft could help, you’d need diplomas and certificates if you wanted to work as a doctor. Or you could do something else, it’s entirely up to you. You’re completely free to do whatever you want and go wherever you please,” Sherlock babbled. His hands fluttered uselessly around the desk, picking at non-existent lint and brushing off imaginary dust.
“Do you want me to leave?” John asked from beside him.
“No!” Sherlock turned to him. “I mean, yes, if you want to. Or not. It’s your choice.”
“I think… I’d like to stay. If that’s okay?”
“If that’s o—yes, of course it is. There’s another bedroom upstairs, you can take that. Or we can swap!” Sherlock blurted out when John frowned up at him. “It’s fine, you can take mine, whichever suits you. I really don’t min—”
Sherlock was cut off by the firm press of John’s lips against his. The kiss was chaste and brief, a simple peck. Far too chaste and far too brief, in Sherlock’s opinion.
“Do I need to spell it out for you?” John asked when they parted. He pulled away just far enough to speak, their faces still close enough to share breath.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Neither do you.”
“We haven’t—this isn’t—I can’t—you don’t—” Sherlock tried to say several things at once and ended up saying nothing.
“Just tell me no, and I will back away,” John said gently. He laid his hands on Sherlock’s hips to bring them closer together, and Sherlock gripped the front of John’s shirt.
“I’m not saying no. I just...” Sherlock cut himself off with an annoyed huff.
John brushed their noses together. “It’s a promise then. When we’re both ready. Yeah?” He waited for Sherlock to nod. “We’re not in a rush, anymore.”
One side of Sherlock’s mouth curled up in a lopsided smile. John kissed that corner of his mouth gently, and stepped away.
Sherlock stood by the desk a few moments longer, trying to calm his hammering heart. They were fine. They would be fine. They would stay together and it would all be fine.
Sherlock turned around to see John holding his violin case with a smile.
“Play something?”
Sherlock prepared his bow and violin, while John settled in the armchair facing him. It was the chair that has been no one’s, the one which Sherlock had looked at with such longing just a few nights ago. Now, John was here. And he would stay here, across from Sherlock, smiling with tender affection in his eyes. Neither of them were lonely any longer.
Sherlock lifted his violin, and began to play.