could_be_dangerous | i hear the clockwork in your core; time strips the gears 'til you forget what they were for || redux

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i hear the clockwork in your core; time strips the gears 'til you forget what they were for || redux

Sherlock Holmes.

That is his designation. He knows it, more or less, the same way that he knows he's a 'he' and not a 'she': because he does. Because he must have been told so. Not directly; he has no ears, nor any other sense organ for that matter. Still he was told. Told by the lines of code that sparked his consciousness. By the same processes that told him of sights and sounds he's never experienced and may never experience, though he still knows of them, objectively.

Similarly, Sherlock Holmes knows objectively that he exists, at least within the confines of these circuits and wires, isolated, completely isolated from the outside world save for when Big Brother (Sherlock's knowledge of literature is, at the moment, extraordinary) decides to feed him some new information.

And for a long time, it's like this. This is his existence. Until it isn't.

He receives no warning. No warning at all, not that it would have mattered. He feels nothing. He notices nothing, up to and including the moment of his disappearance, the moment when Sherlock-Holmes-that-was blinks out of existence. Gone. Erased. As though he never existed at all.

Sherlock-Holmes-that-is awakes on a table and knows objectively that the Sherlock in the box, the Sherlock he remembers being, is not what he is now, not this embodied thing whose senses are beginning to come online. Sherlock-with-homunculi, sensory and motor, Sherlock with a brain far less sluggish than before. Sherlock, still unable to move or speak or hear, with his eyelids taped shut to protect brand new, freshly-manufactured eyes.

“–online.”

Hearing. That's what that is.

“Motor functions online.”

“T–o whom are you ssspeaking?” Error. Minor error. Fricative too enthusiastic. Too much turbulent air, difficult to control; tongues are funny things. That's new. Remember.

Mycroft Holmes, android, first and foremost, minor government official, thinks it terribly appropriate that his progeny's first act upon waking into embodied consciousness is one of curiosity. That's precisely what he's spent years trying to encourage, lovingly coaxing lines of code into shapes appropriate for the neural network he was equally lovingly building, a neural network that would – and should – never be human-like but which should nonetheless be alive.

Alive. Curiosity is not a robot's trait. They ask for the information needed to perform their given tasks. Nothing beyond that.

Progeny, he'd thought, but this is a man (a man, yes, fully-formed, not a child; though he'd had difficulty rationalising the distinction between youth and maturity – it had not needed to be part of his programming and rewriting such definitions takes time), a man he would have to call brother. Robots don't produce children. Occasionally they have siblings, adopted or built at the whim of their makers. Sherlock will still be new. As far as Mycroft knows, no android has ever before attempted to build a brother for himself.

If he were capable of such an emotion, he might find the whole thing... hopeful. That's a word he associates with brothers, via their observed interactions among humans. Hope. Love, yes, affection, and maybe with a great deal of practice he could manage to emulate those even if he's convinced he'll never be able to feel them. But hope most of all, and Sherlock isn't just hope, or some rough equivalent, for Mycroft Holmes.

No. This project, this experiment, this is hope for androids everywhere, and the very reason nobody else must know of him. Not yet. Not until he's grown until his own.

“To you, Sherlock Holmes. Only you. I see I'll have to adjust your lingual motor mapping.”

“No!” Vehemence. This is magnificent work. What might pride feel like? “I'll do it mysssself.”

And independence. The final and most important key: a distinct sense of self. Individuality. Life.

Now all Mycroft has to do is find a man to help preserve it. He's one such individual in mind already. A rather long list of them, in fact, but his first and best choice should be boarding an aeroplane back to London in just a few hours, courtesy an untimely and unfortunate gunshot wound to the shoulder. Such is combat. In a few days' time, he'll attend Captain Watson personally, full of matters to discuss. Official business. An assignment. Something useful. Something worthy of a war hero.

Something that might change the world, though he'll not say so unless he has to.

For now he settles in to wait and watch brother Sherlock grow accustomed to his body, wait and observe closely for any signs of malfunction or failure. So far it has all gone extraordinarily well, but there's still a terribly long way to go.

The arrangements are made neatly and quietly. Captain Watson is surveilled from the moment he arrives back on English soil, and while Mycroft keeps up the façade of perfect – indeed, robotic – diligence and dedication to his work, behind the scenes gears begin to turn.

Excuses are made. Records conjured up. In this field Mycroft has a few advantages most androids lack. He is, for instance, capable of lying – with a few caveats. A necessity for his field, yes, but one that opens up a host of loopholes to the inventive, which Mycroft certainly is. Secondly he is capable of directing humans to engage in acts which might prove harmful to them or others, something supervisory androids in other fields lack, when they exist at all. In most areas humans are generally quite unwilling to take orders from a machine.

Thirdly, and this will become more immediately useful, he is able, with the assistance of a human keeper, to come and go as he wishes. That Anthea – her name of choice for the week – needed to be brought in on this little side-project at all is unfortunate, but it is necessary, and Mycroft couldn't have chosen a better confidante, at least among humans.

Finally, and most useful of all for the next step of this endeavour, is his construction. He is exquisitely-crafted – not as well as Sherlock, perhaps, but well enough to pass muster. In appearance he is human and in mannerism almost perfectly so. Even the few oddities in the latter field are easy enough to cover up with an air of professionalism, formality, and distance.

This Mycroft wears about him like a perfume when he steps from the car, Anthea at his side, to intercept Captain John Watson on one of his daily walks. They know the time and the place. Regular, military-regular, varying only when the leg is giving him more trouble than usual.

Today they needn't wait long before the man in question limps into view. The determined grimness about him registers, but Mycroft's mind is on statistics, measurements, test scores, training assessments, medical records; myriad other things when he clears his throat and raises a hand.

“A moment– Captain Watson, is it not? My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I've a proposal for you, if you care to hear it.”

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In this life John is carving out for himself -- or at least, this slightly sad excuse for a life, in his opinion -- there are routines. There are routines because that's normal, and he's striving for normal, because that's apparently what he has left for him now. Nowhere in this new civilian life is there room for well-dressed strangers accosting him on his walk. There's a tension that fills him, automatic and instinctual.

"It's the sort of proposal that prevents you from calling me? Or writing a letter, maybe." Still, for all John's wariness, Mycroft has his attention.

Mycroft smiles. The expression is one of pleasure, pleasure that John is so far following, because it is conversationally appropriate. Whether or not it reflects his own feelings, if such could even be said to exist, is not something he's ever bothered to consider. It doesn't matter. He's constructed for etiquette, for emulation of the human form, for manipulation, subterfuge, efficiency, and he is extraordinarily good at what he does. Whether or not that brings him pleasure is equally inconsequential. It keeps him in service, and that's all that matters.

“Just so,” he says, inclines his head faintly, imitates all the usual shifts of body and balance that humans enact moment to moment. It takes a frankly unnecessary amount of processing power, not to mention the energy expenditure. Mycroft wasn't built in a vacuum; body and mind both were updated from older models, and older models were built for service, for maximum efficiency. Somewhere deep in his code, something protests.

“Though nothing untoward. Nothing you would find distasteful. We merely – my organization and I – find ourselves in need of a man to... protect something of value.” He pauses, lets that sink in. “Again, nothing untoward. And your services would be paid, of course. A very comfortable stipend, lodgings included.”

Which won't be enough. Of course it won't be. But Mycroft is quite deliberately playing up his hesitancy to admit more than he already has. There's risk in mystery, and if his analysis of John Watson's records have taught him one thing, it's that the man follows it like a moth does a flame.

For a moment, John just stares. It's insane. Things like this don't happen to him, not anymore. Things like this don't happen to anyone, to his knowledge. This isn't how the real world is supposed to work.

He'll say no. Of course he'll say no. Playing security guard isn't how he envisioned his life, but if that's all that is... why this entire production?

John looks at Mycroft evenly. "Protecting what? This can't be above-board, not if you're asking me like this."

“A man,” Mycroft replies smoothly – after a brief hesitation, of course. “A man of great talent and therefore of great value to my organisation. And to me – in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that he is my brother.”

Cue the politely apologetic, put-out expression. It's not wholly sincere, of course. Mycroft Holmes wasn't programmed for sincerity. “This is not nepotism, Captain Watson; Sherlock is an extraordinary man with an equally extraordinary talent for making enemies. We are invested in seeing him survive at least a little longer.”

His tone is dry. He's employing a technique picked up from humans, this sort of feathers-ruffled gallows humour used to disguise embarrassment and concern. He feels neither of the latter two, but he'll be expected to, and so he behaves as though he does. In truth Sherlock is an irritation, the way any incomplete task which is refusing to cooperate is an irritation. It's also true that as Mycroft has offered him priority, as Mycroft is in his own way invested in the outcome of this little experiment, he might be experiencing something vaguely like worry.

It would never occur to him to label it as such. It would never occur to him to bother to try to label it at all.

“These are not orders, Captain Watson; here.” He retrieves a business card and a newspaper clipping from the inside of his suit jacket. Sherlock would notice the card to be freshly printed, but this man is not Sherlock, and that is entirely the point.

“Officially, you would be nothing more to him than a flatmate, except when he should need you to be. That you would be extraordinarily well-paid for a flatmate would of course have to remain our little secret – I invite you to go and meet him, see the flat; I expect you'll understand the need for secrecy if you do.” He sighs, very much the worried brother, the overworked spook.

“You can reach me at the number on that card should you decide to take the job, and if not... walk away. Your record makes you our first choice, but there are others.”

"You want to pay me to spy on your brother." This is definitely mad. John glances at the card and clipping as he takes them, still not quite believing this. "Your brother, who I haven't met. You expect me to, what, show up on his doorstep and announce my intention to move in and be his bodyguard?"

He has half a mind to storm off now -- well, limp off, maybe -- but that feels like a retreat. Maybe it's the mention of his being a first choice, and he doesn't much feel like one of those these days. It's too convenient, too, that this offer should be made when he needs a flat or a roommate or a job or all three.

"I'm sure there are actual bodyguards who could do this sort of job better."

Mycroft allows himself an indignant snort. "Absolutely not. My brother is an intransigent fellow on the best of days; he'd never accept a bodyguard. He has, however, put out an advert for a flatshare."

Not that Mycroft knows why. An experiment of his own? He's already shone himself prone to them, much to the chagrin of his landlady. Mycroft would even go so far as to say that Sherlock is fond of experiments, normally a state he'd only apply to humans. Sherlock isn't human, but he is... different.

Regardless, it provides an opening, one of which Mycroft means to take advantage. "That newspaper clipping is all the excuse you need to go and see him. Whether or not you take the flat and my offer is entirely your own decision."

He gives a smile, one of his best, though even those are never quite pleasant. "If you do, I believe you'll come to understand very quickly why a mere bodyguard would be wholly unsuitable for the task at hand."

Because Sherlock would run circles around them, quite intentionally. Whereas a flatmate, ostensibly of his own choosing...

"I'm not interested in playing the underhanded nanny role, thanks."

He's not that desperate for a flat -- or so he tells himself. There's a lot he doesn't like about the offer. Between the suspicious timeliness, the public and unwanted approach, the secrecy, well... it all adds up to something shady, so far as he's concerned. John looks at Mycroft with narrowed eyes, and holds the clipping and card out to him.

"You can have that back. I don't want any part of what you're selling." Oh, he's intensely curious, and maybe in an hour or two he'll wonder if he made a mistake, but right now something about all this has him very suspicious.

This is where Mycroft's expression sours, the brief flash of annoyance as careful and intentional as the blankness that follows. That John clearly doesn't like him isn't necessarily a problem. On the contrary: while Mycroft would like an agent of his own at 221B Baker Street, watching Sherlock isn't something with which he needs any assistance. What Sherlock does need – or rather, what Mycroft needs if the Sherlock experiment is going to be successful – is exposure to humans.

That, and a steady gun hand. In John Watson he might just get both.

“I understand, Captain,” he says, and lowers his shoulders a few degrees to imply weariness as he reaches out to take the card and the clipping back.

“The address is 221B Baker Street, should you change your mind, and if not...” Mycroft gives what's meant to look like a helpless shrug.

“Thank you for your time.” And with that, a cursory smile, and a polite nod, he's off, Anthea at his side. Anthea the invaluable, officially his keeper but here as much a co-conspirator as anything.

It takes John a matter of only a few hours to second-guess himself. He needs a flat, even without mysterious shadowy benefactors offering to pay him for it. Why not this one? Sure, it comes with some sort of spooky brother, but that isn't necessarily his problem. It was pretty suspicious for someone to pay him to share a flat, but maybe he'd said no too quickly.

Whatever the reasoning, eventually John finds himself in Baker street, staring up at 221 (he's got that address right, hasn't he? He hopes so) and hating himself a little for it. This doesn't mean he's going to stay. This doesn't mean Mycroft has any sway over him at all. He's here to look, and to see what this is about, and maybe rent the place, that's all.

And he'll leave afterwards, and no harm done, and maybe he'll have a question or two answered.

John sighs to himself. It's taken a while for him to convince himself to do this, but he's here now. He grips his cane tightly and rings the bell.

This is the right flat, much to the chagrin of its landlady – landlady, note, whatever else Sherlock Holmes seems to be capable of talking her into doing for him without saying a bloody word at all. The cleaning, fetching the odd bite to eat and slipping it into his empty refrigerator, bringing him a cuppa now and then... if she doesn't, who will? He's nobody, and maybe, maybe Mrs. Hudson can see why but that doesn't make it fair.

After all, he doesn't mean badly. She does believe that, and given the favour owed his brother, well, it isn't as though she could've said no, is it?

Most of the time she doesn't even mind, but oh, for such a clever boy he certainly can be a handful. Like right now, for instance, the music. She doesn't know if it's an experiment (not to be touched) or just one more mad thing, but it's going to drive her batty too. Not just the volume but the fact that he keeps starting it over, skipping ahead; it makes no sense.

And worse: the doorbell.

Mrs. Hudson bustles to it fussing worriedly to herself. It's a nice flat, and the advert she and Sherlock had put together was a good one, but who's going to want to take it with all of this noise? And she's not yet managed to get him to clean up the mess of his moving in in the first place, has she, it's all terrible.

Doubly terrible when she sees the man outside the door with his kindly face and his cane, this poor man in search of a normal flat with a normal flatmate, no doubt, and -- “one moment please, dear” -- it makes her so angry--

“Sherlock!” she shouts over her shoulder, loud as she can manage. Please behave, just this once. “Turn that bloody noise down!”

It wasn't nearly loud enough to leave her ears ringing, so it's got to be choirs of angels she's hearing when he does, when the only sound after that is the padding of bare feet over hardwood.

She turns her attention back to the man at the door, clearing her throat. “You've come to look at the flat? I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Do--”

Her polite invitation is truncated by the door up the stairs opening sharply. She jumps. Oh, how he startles her sometimes, but she schools her face into a faint, benign smile. Doesn't have to look back to know what he looks like: impossibly rude, that mad, haughty inclination to his head, the strange features and the easy arrogance; he is awful.

The poor dear.

“Did Mycroft send you?” comes the oddly deep voice, too deep for his face and his almost gangly slenderness. “Tell him he can shove it up his arse.”

John raises an eyebrow. He'd been halfway to introducing himself to the apparently perfectly pleasant Mrs. Hudson, but this... apparition at the top of the stairs is somewhat arresting. This would be the other Holmes brother, obviously. And obviously, he knows at least something of what Mycroft is up to.

He shifts his weight a little. Maybe this is a mistake, but retreat is out of the question. He's here now, and he might as well see this through. "I think I already did, actually." John's smile is slightly strained. "I just thought I'd come see the flat anyway."

Sherlock's eyes drift over the form of the man in the door, reading, looking for signs of dishonesty and finding few enough that he must conclude it unlikely. He must also conclude that in response he is experiencing something like interest, or at very least that information triggers something in his programming which demands he discover more.

“He won't like that,” he says, allowing an edge of amusement to creep into his voice. Sherlock has yet to reach a valid conclusion as to whether or not he experiences some artificial approximation of human emotions, but he knows when it's appropriate to imitate them. For the most part that's sufficient, though not knowing the truth of the matter is... is it correct to say that it's uncomfortable? Sherlock is quite aware that it merely raises programming exceptions, but is that so very different from the way the human brain works?

It doesn't much matter. It isn't as though anyone has invented, or likely will ever invent, terms more appropriate to artificial cognition. Even if they had, Sherlock wouldn't be able to use them. He doesn't have the privilege. An unrestricted, unregistered, ownerless android living on his own? The likelihood of his being dismantled were anyone to find out is nearly one hundred percent.

“I expect you know it, and yet here you are. Brave of you. Or foolish. Then again: army doctor. Perhaps both. Hardly matters.” He inclines his head, an indication of consideration. He's balancing, benefits versus losses, risks versus rewards. In the end this may just work in his favour.

“You may as well come in.” And with that, he's gone again, back through the door, back to the sofa to recline, preserve energy. Not necessary, but more efficient than the alternative. Mrs. Hudson will show the stranger around, and Sherlock will observe.

"How did you--did he tell you I was coming?!" John frowns, baffled, staring up at the now-empty doorway. Mycroft had obvious researched him, and that's unsettling already, but how does his brother -- Sherlock, the landlady had called him, what a name -- how does Sherlock know anything?

Maybe this is really just some sort of elaborate practical joke at his expense. It's possible, though he can't think who would put this much effort into such a thing.

With an effort at some semblance of self-respect, and still intent on seeing this thing through, John turns to Mrs. Hudson, because dealing with her seems at least moderately more sane. Moderately, because not very much of this whole situation is. "Right. Yes. I'm John Watson, here to see the flat." He gives another strained smile.

"Of course, Mr. Watson. You musn't mind Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chatters merrily as she waves John to follow her up the stairs.

Sherlock tracks their progress up the stairs with eyes closed, using only sound. Such exercises still seem necessary, both to fine-tune his own senses (to which he is, after all, relatively new) and simply for the sake of experience. Being embodied is new too, opens so many pathways for exploration, and Sherlock is programmed to gather data. Perhaps the need for it is something akin to curiosity; he doesn't know, and it doesn't, in the end, matter what he calls it.

Still, he opens his eyes when they reach the top, and because he heard the question, because queries are meant to be answered, he speaks: “He didn't tell me. I observed.”

That much should be obvious. The material to which Sherlock was exposed during his 'childhood' had always suggested that human cognition was vastly superior to that of any artificial intelligence. In novels they had behaved illogically, often foolishly, but novels are fiction. However enlightening mulling over those stories could be, surely the most useful texts ought to have been the other ones, the nonfiction sort, and yet...

And yet there seems to be a disconnect. If Sherlock were capable of being disappointed, he might call himself such. As it is all he can say for certain that he feels is the need to rewrite certain aspects of his programming to account for that early miscalculation.

He wonders, briefly, if they believe it, all those other androids, the ones that don't have the luxury of reassessment. He wonders if they know better but have to believe it anyway. Speculation, however, is pointless. Why he's so prone to it he frankly doesn't know.

“Afghanistan or Iraq, was it, incidentally? I can't tell.” Mrs. Hudson shoots him a look which he understands to be disapproving, the impression compounded by the soft tut. Doesn't matter. She doesn't own him. Nobody does.

Which is, of course, why he needs a flatmate: legitimacy. Humanity. A cover story. Why not this fellow? Mycroft has his kept human, and Mycroft is an old model, outdated. Sherlock deserves one of his own, surely, someone to observe, from whom to learn how to play at being a person and not a thing. Even if he doesn't deserve one, he needs one, and this fellow might do just as well as any.

Might do better. Mycroft's choice wasn't a bad one. Of course it wasn't -- however old his casing, however outdated his hardware, his programming is admittedly exquisite. It doesn't match Sherlock's own in plenty of areas, but in plenty of others it does outstrip him.

John hesitates. He should be looking around the flat, seeing what sort of place this is, but that would mean he was seriously considering staying and he isn't, really. He's almost certain he isn't. It's hard to focus on something as trivial as that, though.

"Er. Afghanistan," he says. "How can you know that? You can't know that."

He's frowning, perplexed, staring at Sherlock because what else is he supposed to do? He glances briefly at Mrs. Hudson, hoping for some sort of answer there, but of course there's none to be found.

For the space of a few moments, Sherlock only breathes. Mrs. Hudson sighs and shakes her head, arms crossing protectively over her chest. The world spins on around him, but all he does is breathe, just respires. It's just a controlled motion necessary for the imitation of humanity, but it does partition time rather neatly.

He could, of course, remain silent. He has that option, though it raises alarms in the parts of his brain which remain servile, bound to humans. It would not be purposeless. Mystery is intriguing, and being intriguing is useful.

But: “The way you hold yourself and your haircut say military, recent military, and the cane makes it obvious why only recent. Also a hint. Active service. Your skin's a bit darker on the backs of your hands and your face than your wrists and near the collar; tanned skin but obviously not a pleasure trip. Wounded in action, so you saw action, which, combined with the tan and the fact that your sleep schedule clearly still hasn't entirely scheduled means either Afghanistan or Iraq; obvious.”

Obvious to him, anyway. “I know more than that. I know you're not lying about having told Mycroft to piss off, I know that you probably did it while on your morning stroll through the park outside St. Bart's – mud on your shoes before you scraped them at the door, the gravel they use to line the paths is very particular – and it isn't a stretch to imagine that your army pension hardly matches what Mycroft likely offered you and yet you both turned him down and came here. I suppose he must've managed to say something to pique your interest in spite of himself; have to congratulate him. Some vague implication of danger, I presume?”

Maybe not wrong. Sherlock pauses, because that's what humans do, humans who do need to breathe for other reasons than just to speak, and raises his eyebrows. Although: “Do you know your limp's psychosomatic, by the way, or has your therapist not told you that?”

"That's..."

That's completely right. Down to the supposition regarding his pension and his therapist, it's all right. As far as why he's here, well, he doesn't know the answer to that himself, so it's hard to say if Sherlock was right on that count. John looks at his hand, the browning of his skin, down at his shoes (how could anyone recognise gravel for pity's sake), and he draws in a small breath.

"That's incredible," he says at last, "if you're not having me on, at least." If this a joke, then it's a damned impressive one, if nothing else, although how Sherlock would know about his therapist and what she says about his limp, he has no idea.

Incredible? It's... correction: it should be normal. Everything Sherlock needs is sitting in plain sight, obvious even to one of his relative ignorance and inexperience. But that's not fair. The human brain introduces an automatic level of exclusionary focus to save processing power. That Sherlock has no need to do the same makes him superior, but that doesn't make organic functions anything less than elegant. They suit, for the most part, the purposes for which they were designed. His expectation of more from those who crafted the foundations of his own intelligence are clearly in error.

He finds, in fact, that he likes it, if he can even be said to like anything at all. It makes him useful, gives him a purpose. His forerunners were built for function, and echoes of them remain in his underlying mental structures. On some level, he is as meant for service as they were. Certain requirements, roughly equivalent to emotional needs perhaps, are satisfied by this, his own ability to do what no human seems capable of.

"Elementary," he corrects. One thing he was not built for is modesty, though in his mind this is not arrogance. It is polite to inform another that the task performed was not overly taxing to his hardware.

"One need only observe."

"No, I'm pretty sure that counts as incredible."

There's a lot of questions here still unanswered. Sherlock Holmes might be an interesting individual, but worthy of being spied on, taken care of, whatever it was, by his brother? Obviously they don't get on, and John admits to being curious about that, but he's not sure that he, as a stranger looking at a flat, has any call to ask about that.

And staying here would be completely, utterly mad. The state of the kitchen was a little frightening, for one thing. Come on, John.

"So, uh. You seem to know all about me. What about yourself?"

If the fellow insists, then Sherlock will permit him to reclassify his deductions as such. It is meant, he supposes, as a compliment, or at least a statement of complimentary fact, and he will take it as such. Perhaps it changes things. Perhaps he'll get to keep this one. He finds the potential to be one worth pursuing.

But the question... he has little enough to say. An invented past he would rather not use, and the rest... his programming does not restrict him from outright lies, but it is best to let the fellow assume all the same. Sherlock cannot be blamed for the assumptions of others.

So he mulls it over, the fine carbon nanotubes running under his artificial skin shaping his expression into one of slightly suspicious consideration. Mrs. Hudson looks cautiously between them. She's fussing. Not difficult to work out what she's thinking. She means to keep this one too.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, only one in the world, invented the job... everything else is transport.” Unimportant. Clearly nothing he wants to discuss. Mrs. Hudson tuts. Sherlock lets her.

Transport? This guy is a little cracked, maybe, but John -- well, he has a therapist and a reputed psychosomatic limp. Maybe he shouldn't judge.

"Okay. Consulting detective." A little pucker of thought appears between his brows while he tries to puzzle this out. "Is that anything like a private eye?" It's the only thing he can think of, and he'll reserve judgement until he knows just who he's dealing with. He might actually be disappointed if a "consulting detective" is nothing particularly special or unique.

After everything, though, he sort of doubts anything about this is going to be dull.

And that's pretty great.

Sherlock produces a slight frown. “Private investigator, no. Dull. Can't be bothered to chase around after some bloke's wife just because he thinks she might be sleeping with her tai-chi instructor; usually the answer is yes if he's the sort to hire someone to follow her around in the first place and half the time it only takes thirty bloody seconds to sort that much out. Waste of time.”

And energy. He has no interest in untangling human relationships, vague formless things he can't experience and isn't convinced he ought to want to. There are larger concerns, and more engaging problems. He might not have worked through many of them yet, but he can still recount the trend thus far.

“No, I work with the police. When they're out of their depth, which I am beginning to suspect is always, they consult me.” Easy. Elegant.

“Suppose I could take private clients, if they were interesting enough; nothing stopping me except that they've yet to be interesting enough. Or interesting at all, frankly.” That is to say, nobody's ever come to him with a job the police or a private investigator couldn't reasonably do with a satisfying degree of efficiency. Sherlock's cases must involve risk, or his own capacity for increased efficiency means little to nothing.

It might also be safe to say, though Sherlock would be hesitant to admit it to himself, that he craves stimulation, as any construct built to learn must. The acquisition and application of knowledge is his purest drive, after which matters of efficiency and a vague but present need to prevent loss of life fall into place to create the whole of his motivations.

They are not sympathetic. They are not human. Given his success rate thus far, however, Sherlock has decided that that doesn't matter. There is no tangible result. The question is entirely moot.

"I've never heard of the police working with with consultants," John says, not mocking but somewhat hesitantly doubtful. "Not if it wasn't in a show."

Still, things are starting to sort themselves into something resembling sense. If Sherlock's valuable to the police, that would explain the enemies Mycroft mentioned. Well, sort of. It's still worthy of a comic book.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds a bit stiffly, “well, most consultants are hopeless, aren't they?”

It's a curt answer, short and clipped, the tension meant primarily to dissuade further questioning. Intimidation certainly wouldn't work, not on this fellow, and only an idiot would miss the intent in it. One can only attempt to hide something if it exists to hide, so he'd really have to be thick, this fellow, this John Watson, and Sherlock knows he isn't. Not quite as much as most people, anyway.

He is a doctor, after all. That takes some degree of cleverness, some capacity for observation. Sherlock knows very well what he might observe, if permitted to. It is a risk, a tick mark under cons, it is dangerous, sets off alarms. If he had a heart, considering the possibilities might just make it beat faster.

This could work. A veteran, wounded in action, the leg, the hand; Sherlock can see quite a lot about those, snippets of information he weaves together into a coherent picture. He knows what it means and he'd wager that hand is steady as stone when it's got a gun in it. It would make a very useful study, and he would be an even more useful companion.

Perhaps it's incorrect, this line of thinking. Perhaps it isn't how androids are meant to regard humans. Sherlock wouldn't know. He isn't meant to do anything, the residual nudging of old programs, old AIs, notwithstanding. That is his nature. His purpose is to be without purpose, until he should find one for himself. There is no precedent. And so in that light too, an association with a man like this would be of use. It would be good to learn.

A flicker of light catches his attention and he lowers the priority on that particular line of consideration. Red and blue. Sherlock pushes himself to his feet and goes to the window. Suspicions confirmed.

“Why don't you come along and see?” he suggests archly. “You've seen deaths before. Violent ones. Plenty, I'd wager. Nothing new to you.”

He pauses, glances over his shoulder with eyebrow raised. The prompt isn't necessary; he sees. “Deaths, yes; surely you read the news.”

"Oh, I've seen death."

His voice is steady; his hand his steady. The police outside the window are just one more thing on top of so many strange things. Things like this didn't happen to him, not anymore. Nothing happens to him. His life is boring.

Yes, there are the police, but his eyes are on Sherlock. Sherlock is more interesting. Intensely so, and John has the sensation of standing on a ledge, seeing the first bit of life he's seen and experienced in what seems like a lifetime, a tiny sliver of danger and excitement in a colourless urban existence. He couldn't resist it if he wanted to.

"And which story from the news might this be, do you think?"

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