Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Interview on Nunco Live Channel:

Ms. Stapleton, is it true that your company and the government have intertwined for a brand new project, dealing with technological resurrection?

In a way, yes. We are interested in simply taking a mere corpse and restoring it to its life once again. It's a new version of reproduction, really. It is an attempt to add living, moving, and frankly real cells to a dead being. And hopefully, yes, resurrect it.

Couldn't this be fatal to a test subject?

Mildly. You see, because we are using advanced technology with mechanically placed organisms to bring back the subject from beyond the grave, if you will, it can have both minor and major effects. For example, the cells could mutate, giving the mechanism far greater senses in both feeling and emotion, whereas it could also falter in sustaining the life force; if this happens, the subject will need to be charged on a regular basis. Not to mention the fact that most test subjects haven't had the ability to pass the first stage, which is merely reawakening the corpse.

Charged?

Yes, as in: physically induced with a high rate of power, snapping the module back into life, and boosting its energy greatly. It is just like sleep to us; the more you have, the stronger you are, and the more you feel both fulfilled and satisfied.

What sort of test subjects will you be using?

I'm afraid I cannot fully answer such a question.

Rumor has it, you're already moving on to human trials.

I will neither admit to that statement, nor deny it. I will simply say: I believe it could be a phenomenal opportunity for the human race, if we were able to bring the dead back to life. Think about? Never having to worry about losing a family member or loved one.

But, they won't be the same will they? I mean, won't they be…mechanical?

It would depend on the death. Cancer? Wherever the cancer was located, could be easily imported with a metal substance, and dose of our mechanical organisms, restoring the body to full health, along with only minor differences, perhaps living without simple sustenance like food or drink, or sleep of course, or they could merely be the same as they were before. Perhaps the subject died from a car accident. Several lacerations to the head, and arm, or a leg; they would be replaced with a metallic compound, fixing every imperfection or flaw.

So, we'd have a nation of cyborgs?

I suppose you could call it that, yes.

ooo

Comments on Nunco's Daily Board:

~Anonymous:

This woman is ridiculous. This is a threat to humanity. If we were supposed to bring people back from the dead, it would have happened by now. I don't know about you but I wouldn't want my supposed-to-be deceased grandmother walking around with a metal eye that glows, and a leg that clinks and clanks with each step.

~Danielle2724 to Anonymous:

I think it is rather fascinating. Think of it, though. Anyone you love, back, and able to stay forever. Why wouldn't you want that?

~Anonymous to Danielle2724:

Are you kidding me? Laws would change, physics would be altered.
We would have far to many people on the Earth. The population in each state, country, town – whatever! – would grow at a steady rate, and wouldn't stop. Our population is far too big as it is, and soon the rest of the world would be boarding at least 1.357 billion, same at China.
Why the hell would you want one billion people in a town?

~Danielle2724 to Anonymous:

You don't know that that would happen!
Who's to say our population would boost too high?

~Anonymous to Danielle2724:

Don't be an idiot! Come on! Everyone would want their family members resurrected, back in their life.
Soon the surface of the Earth would be covered in these abominations we attempt to call human.

~Danielle2724 to Anonymous:

They could always raise the price of resurrection. Perhaps make it an incredibly high pay to bring back a person of interest to you.

~Anonymous to Danielle2724:

They wouldn't get away with that. People would give both the government and this crazy lady hell, saying it's not fair that they have the power of God and all that jazz, and won't share it. I mean, dude, they'll probably ban reproduction from the Earth.

~Gorgfangirl82 to Danielle2724 and Anonymous:

You both present really valuable opinions. Just argue somewhere else, mmkay? ;)

ooo

Speech by a Jacqui Stapleton, printed into the Daily Feedings Newspaper at 2:03, Sunday Morning:

I have found that many of you oppose the idea of both human and animal resurrection. Yes, it has its flaws, but it also has its benefits. Therefore, with this speech, I address those of you who have gratefully accepted this compromise, and scientific method miraculously unraveled. I will devote an enormous amount of both time and effort to make sure I produce this project to its full potential. It is a notion of progress in the history of humanity. Yes, these subjects, whomever we test on, will be part machine, but they will also hold the key to the dead. Imagine the things we could discover. What is beyond the grave? Is there a heaven, a hell, a God? Is it merely a black hole, sucking you in, reducing your life force? All our unanswerable questions will finally become explainable and eventually prove their answers right below our very nose. Much work has gone, and will go, into this, so I expect the best from you all in the manner of acceptance. I am not a villain trying to take over the world, or consume our fine planet with newly, mechanical Cyborg species. I simply want answers. I am a scientist, a philosopher, a pathologist. I merely want to crack the code that is life, and death, and need everybody's fine will power and intense motivation and inspiration. Give me this privilege, please. And I will give you something you will never believe, regret, or disapprove of.

I now find that it is the right time to inform you all, those who are reading this, or listening to this, that we have now found a test subject. A human being willing to cooperate with the experiment, I prefer to call it my special project, even as a mere corpse. I know many of you will find this rash and inexplicable, but I assure you, all is planned out, all is illuminated specifically, and all is well prepared. I feel that you will appreciate this frankly mastered way of science, without thinking of the scalpels, or brains that went into it, and simply thinking of the greatness achieved by designing this immaculate product of mere metal and mechanics.

Thank you for your time.
My name is Jacqui Stapleton, and I am satisfied with my work and study in human life, even if half of the world is not.

...

...

Verge
(The verge escapement dates from 13th-century Europe, where its invention led to the development of the first all-mechanical clocks. They kept time by using the verge escapement to drive a horizontal bar with weights on the ends called the foliot, a primitive type of balance wheel, to oscillate back and forth.)

John Watson liked to play pretend. He liked to pretend he was okay. He liked to pretend he didn't have a psychosomatic limp he could never forget about; he liked to pretend he didn't have daily therapy sessions; he liked to pretend the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep were just make-believe, that perhaps he wasn't constantly eyeing the handgun hidden away in his top-left draw, taunting him with silent accusations.
But sometimes just pretending wasn't good enough.

Ella kept telling him to post on the blog, but honestly how the hell would that help? Said it would be therapeutic. His father had always told him to write. He mumbled on about how it helped get out all your feelings, said that the words flow easier when written down then when spoken. John didn't think he could agree. His father was a bit eccentric, always had been, but that was before the drinking. After his mum died, of course.

And then Harry, his bloody rebellious sister, had somehow physically contracted the, apparently, 'contagious' disease of being an alcoholic.
It was frustrating, and really, without sounding too childish, rather unfair.

How come they got the easy way out? How come they were able to simply drink away their worries, their fears, and their problems? All while John was sat at his desk, gazing blankly at the small pistol shimmering metallically in the artificial light, so tempting, as the rush of vulnerability cascaded down upon him again.

But, as always, he shook his head and turned back to his laptop. He wouldn't go there. He would reach his breaking point, at least not yet. He still had a life. He should be grateful for making it out of Afghanistan alive, not wishing he could take it away with the pull of a trigger.

He sighed and ran his fingers over the keyboard of his blank-screened computer.

He hadn't even been able to conger up a creative title, merely, "My Blog", followed by the irritable blinking of the vertical line indicating the impatient start of a word; any word, just as long as he typed some sort of word! He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose angrily, and slammed the screen, of his computer, closed. Leaning back in his desk chair, he took a few moments. His hands simply carded through his hair in aggravation, and massaged his pounding scalp, clearly paining him because of his lack of concentration.

He wasn't sure how long went by. He found himself slowly drifting, falling into a sea of nothingness, surrounded by empty thoughts, as his eyes closed distantly.

Somehow, deep down in that overwhelmed mind of his, he remembered his appointment.
And then he remembered to check the time, on the cheap watch that was waiting patiently on the rim of his wrist.

And then he realized that he was most definitely, and quite undeniably, going to be late.

"How's your blog going?" Ella asked, her face all too flat for John's liking.

Therapists were tricky. It was like they were trying to comfort you, but thinking something all too different in their heads. Silent judgment, John supposed. Ella was exactly like that: seemingly silently judging you.

She was dark-skinned, with fairly short, black hair, and rather dark eyes that seemed a little too contrasted in the oddest way. They stood out the most, staring you down in an attempt to almost scare the words right out of you. They were intense – faintly sinister.

But John never said that aloud; why would he?

"Yeah, good." John bobbed his head up and down, and steadily cleared his throat, "Very good."
His mind flashed back to the impatient blinking of that infuriating vertical line, awaiting the extent of John's thoughts.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" Ella sighed, shaking her head slightly and staring apologetically his way.

John had a hard time swallowing as the knot in his throat simply continued to grow, whilst Ella scribbled something onto the clipboard she held, placed just above her knees.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." He pointed out, eyes narrowing in a sort of irritation, however oddly satisfied with himself.

Ella gave him that distant look and blinked, "And you read my writing upside down."

John's eyes dropped as she sighed, "D'you see what I mean?"

He found himself smiling rather awkwardly, and messing with the placement of his fingers on the arm of his current seating arrangement.

Ella leaned forward, bracing her arms on the roof of her quadriceps, and eyeing John carefully and cautiously.

John froze, knowing a full-blown monologue would come next.

"John, you're a soldier. It's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John wanted to groan at her words, throw his hands in the air, and yell 'I'm trying!', but he simply went for an easy and bluntly honest answer.

"Nothing happens to me."

"And you've induced the neutralizers?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Vital signs?"

"Not yet."

"Keep working."

"Yes, Doctor."

Dr. Stapleton took another look at the test subject.

This will work. This experiment will be life changing, and it will work.

She eyed his hair, his eyes shut peacefully, his lips still, his limbs dangling from his position in the cylinder.
She ran her fingers along the wires, double-checking that each colored tube was connected to the correct circuit. She watched as her fellow scientists fiddled with the gears inside his body, working on the metallic shine with careful care and poise.

Each metal body part was a beautiful bronze, gold or silver.

He was beautiful. Her project.

Mere commoners could say otherwise. They could say she was wrong to do this; they could say she was a monster working on her feral Frankenstein; they could say she would fail and fall into the land of the forgotten. But frankly, she didn't care.

As long as her little 'experiment' is a success, she will forever drown out the judgment of others and their criticisms.
She turned to her head scientist, eyes darkening as she grew serious about her situation once more.

"How are our security measures?" She snapped the question speedily, and observed the grey-haired man in curiosity and suspicion.

"Keypads lock every door, Doctor." Dr. Frankland informed her, fixing his lab coat, and giving her a far more professional speaking stance.

"I mean employees." She clarified, her eyes glowering back at him impatiently.

"Ah. One or two security officials, ma'am." Dr. Frankland responded, quite quickly, clearing his throat directly after.

"I want someone skilled in defense and combat."

"Doctor-"

"This is a project of the government, Frankland. If anything goes wrong, we could be in serious trouble. On top of that, I don't want my experiment disturbed. Is that clear?" Dr. Stapleton growled at the man cowering before her, and nodding his head hurriedly, "Yes, yes! Of course!"

The scientist spun on her heel, taking another glance at the corpse in the serum-filled cylinder, "Talk to Barrymore. Have him acquire a skilled asset to place outside these doors," She motioned to the entrance of the lab.

Dr. Frankland bobbed his head up and down vigorously and began removing his gloves.

Stapleton watched the still being, wires attached at every end of his frigid skin. "I will not have this project compromised."

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Strike
(On a clock, the strike indicates the destined time by sounding a chime or stroke.)

John was sure boredom was some sort of torture device.

That utterly grotesque feeling of sitting there, on your own, feeling like a complete low-life, because of your lack in plans. He could go out to the pub, perhaps ask one of his mates if they were willing to stay up all night drinking – no, probably wouldn't be best, considering they all have wives and most have children. So what to do? There was always his gun, stashed away in his desk drawer – no, shut up, John.

The doctor sighed, shuffling carefully over to his bed, eager to hopefully ease the ever-impounding boredom with sleep. He slipped off his cozy, blandly colored slippers – a strange hue of puke green and gargoyle grey – and tucked himself gently along the surface of his white blankets. He merely laid there for a while, his head resting firmly on the softness of his dull pillow, while his toes shifted against one another, legs crossed above the sheets.

Today's session had gone better than expected. Still depressing though. He wasn't sure how these little appointments were going to be much help to him, seeing as though he lacked the motivation to change; to fix himself. And boy, did he need fixing.

He was as pointless as a broken clock, gears hanging from every crack and corner of it's shattered face, despaired by its lack of ability to inform one of the time – its true purpose snatched away from it, defeating its very spirit and will to carry on. Bit melodramatic, sure. But still very true – for John at least.
And it was thoughts of broken time and uneven clockwork that sent John into a very dreamless slumber.

 "It's a wise man who understands that every day is a new beginning, because boy, how many mistakes do you make in a day? I don't know about you, but I make plenty. You can't turn the clock back, so you have to look ahead." 
-Mel Gibson

"We have several acceptable mercenaries available, according to your qualifications, Dr. Stapleton." Barrymore informed her, Frankland sitting directly beside him at the grey office table, filing through multiple folders he was having a hard time organizing.

Jacqui Stapleton sighed, nodding and motioned for the men before her to carry on, to which Barrymore reached over, grabbing hold of one of the manila folders held in a lack of grace from the other man, his white hair atop his head seeming to fade with every new day.

The older man laid the file out before her, opening it up to reveal a rather dark looking man. His hair was flat and his face was almost sinister, to which Dr. Stapleton immediately turned away from.

"Trevor, Victor. Twenty-two, currently works on secret affairs involving the government."
Barrymore spoke the words slowly, as if hinting at Stapleton to 'definitely turn this one down'.

Jacqui shook her head almost instantly, "No. Absolutely not. He doesn't look at all trustworthy. I need someone dependable, honest, and fully aware of the serious circumstances at hand. That's not him."

Barrymore nodded, and Frankland looked somewhat relived, "Thank god. He scared the crap out of me."

Stapleton merely sent him a 'this is not a joke' glare, before turning to stare down the next folder, of which Barrymore had already laid out for her. The man was rather fair-haired, smiling casually. He seemed brawny, quite mature, and overall he glowed in a vibe yelling 'formidable but soft'.

"Murray, Bill: Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Currently serving in Afghanistan – though, it would not be a problem to bring him over. In my opinion, he is nearly perfect."

Stapleton turned her nose upward, "He's better, but not quite."

Barrymore sighed and nodded, hesitantly holding up the next file. "This one cannot be guaranteed."

He opened it to reveal a small, middle-aged man. He was grinning quite widely, the color of his dusty blonde-grey hair almost fading into the sandy background. She read over his credentials, eyes widening in admiration for the young man.

"Watson, John. Army doctor; he was serving in Afghanistan before he was discharged back to London after getting shot in the shoulder. Currently lives in Westminster, attending several therapy sessions weekly, dealing with a psychosomatic limp, and post traumatic stress disorder."

Stapleton leaned back in her chair, brows furrowed in calculation.
After a moment, she bobbed her head up and down, pointing back down at the small folder. "Him."

Barrymore narrowed his eyes, "Sorry?"

"He's perfect. He understands discipline, and he understands all genuine seriousness. Plus," She smiled innocently, "he's a doctor, how can I refuse?"

Barrymore glanced over at Frankland, who merely sat still, eyebrows raised in suspicion, and then turned to face the leading scientist again. "With all due respect, Dr. Stapleton, are you sure you want to take on a damaged mercenary? Surely his emotional scarring may get in the way of-"

Stapleton was having none of it, "I would like him on my team, Major Barrymore. I will have him stand beside the project all day. Guarding my possessions will be his duty. Come now, how hard can that be for an ex-military doctor? I'm sure he'll have seen way worse."

She paused to get up from her seat at the long, grey table, and then slowly swayed toward the door. "What I am working on is a frightening process to some, Major Barrymore. I am almost positive that John Watson will not find it so. Which is exactly what I am looking for."

ooo

Pounding. Insufferable pounding. And at what time? Bloody seven in the morning.
Sure, it's a Monday but that doesn't give people the right to come knocking in the early hours!

John groaned loudly to himself, dragging his sleep-deprived body from the depths of his covers, slithering off the bed, onto his feet, and then trudging toward the door. He placed his hand lazily onto the knob, swinging the slab open with a single lunge back of his arm.

Well, looky here. Suits.

A rather tall man stood, straight as an arrow, eyes hidden behind dark shades, in a black and white tight suit.
Next to him stood a smaller woman, far more intimidating than he could ever be. Her eyes were revealed to be a dark brown pit of nothingness, and she wore a tight charcoal colored skirt reaching just below her knees, along with a pristine white dress shirt – black suit jacket on top to match. Her hair was a creamy brown, almost faded by the artificial light, and she merely stood there, the man behind her acting as some sort of bodyguard, while she eyed John suspiciously.

John arched a brow and shrugged, "Uh, hello."

The woman took a step forward, her hand reaching out expectantly, "John Watson."
She said his name as though it were a command rather than a question.

John nodded and shook her hand up and down, rather slowly, "Uh, yeah. Do I know you?"

The woman smirked and drew her hand away, "Anthea. Pleasure to meet you."

John narrowed his eyes, watching the man behind her sway uncomfortably, and the slight twinge upward of her lips when she spoke. "Why do I get the feeling that's not your real name?"

She grinned at that, reaching into her pocket to pull out her mobile, "You're a smart one."

Then all her attention was focused in on her phone, never regarding John even as she continued, "We need you to come with us, Dr. Watson."

John scoffed and crossed both arms over his chest, "I'm sorry?"

'Not Anthea' smiled rather irritably, obviously aggravated with the situation and growing impatient, "Look, John. I work for the British government – and on behalf of the British government, I'm going to need you to come with us now. Clear?" Her argument was hardly ignorable.

And being the man John Watson was, he couldn't deny the fact that he was interested. Wholly interest. What did the British government want with him?

He swallowed, glanced down at his feet, back around at his flat, and then once more at the two beings before him, "Yeah. Okay." He cleared his throat, awkwardly adding, "Do I need to bring anything?"

'Not Anthea' had already vanished from the door frame, her noble guard trudging along behind her, "Just follow me, John. And if you don't mind, don't ask so many questions."

 "When times are tough, constant conflict may be good politics but in the real world, cooperation works better. After all, nobody's right all the time, and a broken clock is right twice a day."
-William J. Clinton

John certainly wasn't accustomed to being shoved into a rather large, slick black helicopter, having a bag thrown over his head, and told to wait until they got to their final destination.

This was extremely, and undeniably unexpected.

The only way he kept himself sane was by listening to the constant whirring of the helicopter propellers. His brain was firing off accusations toward his mental health. Which was understandable, considering he had just gotten into a helicopter with two people claiming to be government officials.

Of course, they had eventually showed him their credentials, but still.

Perhaps he was being taken to a highly guarded prison unit, some strange island where they hold all the dangerous warlords.
But John was merely a retired army doctor. What the hell did he do wrong?

Maybe they planned on carrying him off to some deserted village, erasing his existence from the world and leaving him there with nothing but a fake ID, a catchy alias, and a few pounds. Okay, now his imagination was getting out of control. Ridiculous.

It still didn't defeat the whole question of why? Why him?

He finally heard the propellers slowing down – their booming less audible now – and suddenly the black bag covering his eyes was yanked from his head. 'Not Anthea' was smiling his way. She nodded her head his way and gestured toward the helicopter's stairway exit.

John didn't question her; he simply followed effortlessly. He stepped from the transport and raised his head to catch sight of the facility before him.

It was a large, white and grey, and rather gloomy, building that appeared as more of an asylum, than the words currently titling it in broad lettering: Baskerville, Testing Site. John smirked to himself. Dartmoor, then. Did they really need to cover his eyes?

But his face fell and hardened as he processed the transpiring information. Testing site?
Why the hell was he on a testing site?

A hand on his shoulder pushed him forward, the large bodyguard glaring down at him accusingly. John merely scrunched up his nose and proceeded toward the large, glass doors awaiting him almost expectantly.

From those doors, a new figure was revealed, stepping out into the light of the outdoor world, which was currently a background of woodlands, no civilization in sight at this point. The being headed toward him appeared to be a doctor – or a scientist? – as she wore a bleached white lab coat, and mint green gloves. She had a rather angular shaped face; every thing profusely pointy, especially her nose, and her hair was a mix between dusty blonde and grey, quite like John's own hair color. She was certainly older, perhaps late 40s, and had faded brown eyes, seemingly attempting to stare down to the depths of your soul. She appeared oddly familiar.

John found himself stiffening subconsciously, and stumbled slightly on his limp as she drew nearer and nearer. He nodded his head her way, as she closed the rather lengthy gap between the two.

Removing a glove, she grinned and extended her hand, to which John grabbed and shook politely, "John Watson. So glad you could make it."

John narrowed his eyes and attempted a smile, "Uh, yes, well, I didn't really have much of a choice."

She chuckled at this and bobbed her head up and down in agreement, "Apologies, but we intend to use you to our benefit."

Before John could say another word, the woman patted him on the shoulder and flashed the tall man, or bodyguard rather, standing sternly behind him a quick order, "Thank you, Neilson. That'll be all." The scientist – or doctor – then guided John toward the glass doors, a wide partly satisfied smirk lacing her features.

ooo

"Dr. Watson, I'm sure you've heard of Project 'Chezza'?"

John narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow to the question, "I'm sorry?"

The woman nodded as if understanding, "My new experiment. I intend to resurrect a corpse with the correct mechanical structures and life cells."

John finally understood who this woman was. The one in the papers, and on the TV, and on the Internet; all over the Internet actually. The one blabbing on about her plan to bring back the long-since-been dead, the woman who apparently wants to turn the world into a freelance walkway for androids, or, rather, cyborgs. John Watson wasn't sure how to feel about the whole thing. But what the hell did this ambitious scientist want with him?

John cleared his throat and tried out a nervous smile, "Ah yes, Dr. Stapleton, am I right?"

Dr. Stapleton nodded, "Yes."

John observed as they walked down a long, all white corridor, so white it was basically glowing fluorescently. A few officials, most in army uniform, passed by, all acknowledging the scientist next to him with firm, respectful nods. "I've read about you in the papers. That is quite the project you have going on."

Jacqui seemed to appreciate his statement, "Yes, indeed, and it has all been successful thus far. Which is where you come in."

John's interest perked at this and he raised his brows expectantly, gazing politely at the scientist.

"Dr. Watson, we have enough security means to keep minor items of importance safe, locked away. But with word of the project progressing to human trials, I fear that it is not as safely protected as I'd like."

John nodded as the scientist continued, "I have looked over your previous endeavors, military and current, and frankly you were immediately the perfect candidate for the job."

John furrowed his brows, "And what is the job? Exactly?"

Stapleton smirked politely, "I need you to supervise my project as all times. Especially through the night, or whenever we are required elsewhere for the time being."

John bobbed his head up and down, and ran his tongue across the side of his cheek, "I see. A bodyguard for the body."

Stapleton chuckled, her pace slowing as they approached a door along the side of the white hall, "Precisely."

John watched as she grabbed a key card from her breast pocket, and gently slid it along the scanner of a mechanical keypad. "Here we are, Dr. Watson." She grinned his way, and took hold of the doorknob, "Would you like to see what you're guarding?"

John smiled respectfully and nodded, noting how he was fairly excited. He hadn't felt this strong of an adrenaline rush since the war, and he had instantly forgotten the severity of his PTSD or his insufferable limp.

 "There's no sense talking about priorities. Priorities reveal themselves. We're all transparent against the face of the clock."
-Eric Zorn

He waited patiently as the door slid open, and Stapleton led the way toward a rather large glowing room. The entirety of the space was grey unlike the rest of the facility. Wires of every color seemed to lace every border of every corner of every angle. A light blue hue burned along the edge of everything metallic, its shine giving way to a new shade and a new bewildered idea. Shadows were everywhere like the images in a "Noir" comic book; every shadow defined by a long strip of black ink, rounding every circular object, highlighting every angular surface.

A long, rather sinister appearing control panel sat spaced out from the grey of the ever shrinking room, as its fluorescent buttons hid from the shadows at bay. And then, a tank. Was it a tank? John didn't care: he was merely focusing on the figure floating just below its flood zone.

Blue water, incredibly blue. Not ocean blue, not turquoise, nor Caribbean blue; transparently beautiful, sapphire blue. And it all surrounded a gracious body.

The being's dark curls floated effortlessly in the water, delicately wrapping every so often around the edge of his razor sharp cheekbones; an oxymoron in its efforts to bond: soft and delicate meeting deadly and dangerous. His full lips sat in a pale purple state, as though he was deathly cold.

His eyes were shut, the lashes connected to each rim entirely charcoal black, contrasting magnificently against the nearly white shade of his skin. He was clad in a sort of navy colored uniform, skin tight, seemingly appearing as a wet suit, that defined every curve or rise in his body's length.

His arms and legs, incredibly long legs, were each shaped brilliantly with the roundness of muscle – not too brawny and not too thin. The man was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Anyone with eyes would notice that; boy or girl, man or machine.

The only things disturbing John's thoughts were the multicolored wires hooking themselves graciously around the length of the man's entire figure, and the man's open chest. Open, as in, open open; skin gone – simply a pale red inner concave of hollowness.

And, even as far away as John stood, he could see the gears, the metallic substance intruding on the man's body.
This figure was literally part machine; perhaps, if you will, a robot – but honestly that just sounds immature.

John couldn't remove his eyes, and the only reason he was interrupted from his thoughts was because a gentle hand landed on his shoulder and nearly scared the life out of him. He glanced over at the scientist, careful to keep his composure, "What is he?"

Dr. Stapleton grinned whole-heartedly, pleased with John's sympathy toward the test subject, and nodded, leading John closer to the glowing blue tank of still water – or at least what appeared to be water. "He's a vessel, mostly. A machine with highly beneficial intelligence."

John shook his head, quite confused by her words, "Yeah, but he's not all machine is he?"

Jacqui Stapleton sighed and cocked her head to the side in calculation, "Correct John, not wholly. But he's still almost entirely made up of metal, and gear controls."

John pondered the idea, rather mystified, as they stepped closer to the subject. He was merely a few feet away now, and inched his way toward the man's face. He went to place his hand gently on the glass of the cylinder tank, but was instantly stopped by Dr. Stapleton's warning.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

John gazed at her intently, quickly pulling his hand back in suspicion. She flicked her head toward the control panel across the room, "Shock waves are constantly administered when we are not working. It's his way of 'charging' – electrical energy."

John nodded, flummoxed and frankly quite fascinated. "So, who was he?"

Dr. Stapleton responded with a sad smile, "Sherlock Holmes," She paused and sighed, "He was actually quite the character."

John beamed gently back at her, wary at the thought that this man, here before him, was dead and on his way back into the world. It made him wonder what he was currently experiencing. "How'd he die?" John asked politely.

"He overdosed about a year ago. Heroin. He'd had quite the request before hand, you see," She grinned, thinking back thoughtfully, "He was a man of science – told me he would never allow his feeble-minded relatives to watch his empty corpse sleep at a washed-out funeral home with petty flowers and stupid people. His exact words. So his body was instead preserved, for scientific purposes." Dr. Stapleton chuckled to herself, "I spoke to him only once in his lifetime."

John ushered her onward with a tentative gaze.

"He was an arsehole to be fairly honest. Arrogant, rude, obtrusive."

John raised both eyebrows as the woman went on, "But down right amazing, Dr. Watson."

John smiled and cocked his head to the side, "Why's that?" He asked politely, "What made him so amazing?"

Jacqui Stapleton smirked, "He could look at you and immediately spurt out your entire life story, purely based off deductions." She grinned and shook her head, "When I finally obtained the resources needed to complete the project of mine, I immediately knew he would be the perfect candidate."

John watched as she grinned even wider, "Especially with that IQ of his."

The retired army doctor, jerked forward after taking another glance at the floating corpse, "What was his IQ?"

"190. He was smarter than Einstein."

"Holy shit."

Dr. Stapleton laughed softly, "Precisely Dr. Watson." She paused before continuing, "You see, we need someone clever to act as the test subject, because if – when this experiment is fulfilled they need to have the restraint to handle everything. It won't be easy coming back from the dead and figuring out you're now part machine."

John nodded at the explanation. What would that be like? You felt yourself lose your life and then suddenly, it's granted back to you? It would be terrifying.

He turned his attention back to the wired figure, taking in his magnificent appearance, and imagining the man with the brains of a genius, "It's a shame."

Dr. Stapleton narrowed her eyes, "Sorry?"

John shrugged, knowing he was thinking about the situation from an incredibly different point of view, "Well, he died from drug abuse. Can't help but think with a mind like his, he would have known better. Must have had his reasons."

Dr. Stapleton smiled wearily and sighed, "He did."

John arched a brow.

"He was quite a depressed man, behind the arrogant attitude. Had no friends, his family scarcely made an appearance in his life, and he had it rough in the past."

John beamed sadly and shook his head in disappointment, "I can understand why. Must be hard always being the smartest person in the room and then getting tormented because of it," John then chuckled, "He probably felt like he was living in a world of goldfish."

Dr. Stapleton smiled at his statement and nodded, "I'm sure of it."

Silence passed. They merely stood there, the retired army doctor and the ambitious scientist, staring admirably at the test subject, gears replacing organisms and intestines, emptiness swallowing the figure's entirety.

"So what do you say, Dr. Watson?" Jacqui finally interrupted, staring wistfully at the short blonde man beside her. "Interested in the position?"

John turned to her, a beam spreading across his features, "Oh, yes. Quite."

  "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day."
-Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Sequence
(The sequence of the operation of the gears and/or hammers and/or shutoff and/or trip levers of a particular section of a mechanism to produce the correct result of sound or mechanical operation.)

 John was ultimately pleased with the opportunity set before him.

Firstly, he was, in fact, given a place to stay on the testing site's grounds.
Secondly, the food served in the café below all testing rooms, and classified areas, was quite satisfying – at least better than what he was used to.
Thirdly, he was doing something quite thrilling – and John Watson loved the thrill of action, the blood pumping through his veins.

It was the adrenaline rush that he loved the most about working here; every time a needle was injected into the skin of the sleeping figure, or a gear was tinkered with, John was on tiptoes.

He was eager. Eager to see what would happen when the time came – the time being, when the corpse would finally reawaken; when the broken clock would finally tick again. John was counting every second, and he would continue to count every second, every minute, every hour, until sleeping beauty was activated.

For now, he simply observed; alert to everything surrounding him, as was his new job, but he merely did it so that he wouldn't miss a single detail about the continuous process displayed before him. Dr. Stapleton ordered other scientists about, pointing a finger every which way, sending others flying on her command, white lab coats racing around the room and painting it with mystery.

Dr. Stapleton had thoroughly explained the upcoming procedure – not much, but still enough to clearly inform John of her expectations.

Dr. Stapleton slept here. She had little room, not to far down, an office really, where she would occasionally catch a few Zs – only to be woken up in a fright, and eager to make sure her "special project" was still computing. She stated to John Watson that she merely had "to much to worry about", and therefore "lacks in sleep".

John had understood, as he was quite the insomniac himself, what with all the nightmares and blistering terrors that haunted his every slumber.

She went on to tell the retired army doctor that she had then considered a mercenary for hire, and resulted in his arrival, and so on – the rest was much of which John already knew. She then got to the more intriguing news. The man in the blue tank was set to wake two days from now, perhaps earlier.

She was going to run more tests, inject more life cells, finish fixing up his organs, and then set him free.
Well, sort of. There's only so free he could be.

They would then examine the way he moves, the way he thinks, and the way he feels.

By the time Dr. Stapleton had informed him of this, John was shuddering in excitement, the adrenaline pounding in his veins again, like a drug he couldn't live without. And then he had been officially given the occupation. He was in charge of the safety of this project; which also, partially, meant; he was in charge of its success.

If he couldn't keep the experiment safe, then the man in the tank would lose his chance at another life.
Would that mean he would be responsible for the man's death? No, now he was over thinking the situation.

Over thinking everything from the comfort of his new bed, in a small room, with a clean bathroom, and TV.
He didn't care if it was small, because for once, he didn't have to deal with the ever-demanding threat of a loaded gun waiting impatiently just beside his bed sheets in the corner of an empty draw.

 "We cannot turn the clock back nor can we undo the harm caused, but we have the power to determine the future and to ensure that what happened never happens again." -Paul Kagame

 John had been told to get used to his surroundings for the rest of that previous day, which he had fulfilled, and then retired to bed.

So, when he woke now, it was clearly his first "real" day on the job. He wouldn't make a fool of himself.

He'd been told by Stapleton that someone would fetch him in the early morning hours, yet no one had done so, so John simply fetched himself.

He got to his feet, changed into his uniform (he'd been given a simple vest; a black t-shirt with mere black trousers and black shoes, which he was perfectly satisfied with) and skipped breakfast, instead, washing up and exiting into the white corridors of the testing facility.

He was too eager to stroll, so instead he walked, fast-paced – an anxious stride, surprisingly quick for someone of short stance. He flew past the dozens of vacant doors; their little grey windows revealing only the glow from highly advanced machines, and mechanics.

Scientists nodded faintly toward him as he passed them by. He'd made sure to learn the way from his quarters to his designated area, and by now, with all his bottled up excitement, he was nearly there.

He found himself thinking of the man again. This man.

He had been a depressed man, according to Stapleton.

John had thought so, without even having had the privilege to meet the addict; so as smart as he would not simply "overdose" unexpectedly. He had his reasons; John was respectful enough not to question them. Hell, he'd considered the notion several times.

It's so easy to do.

The suffering is so very prolonged, drawn out, whereas pulling the trigger of a small, seemingly harmless black pistol, held up to one's temple, would pass by in mere seconds. Barely a second at all. So why go through the process of a slow motioned depression when you could take it all away in a heartbeat – who knew if it would get better, or simply worse.

Why put yourself through it?
Why not just end the suffering then and there?

Because it's unfair. It's unfair to those who know you, those who care for you. So when the feeling swarms back again, go to them instead.

That's why they're there.

Back when his older sister used to be sober, sober enough to talk at least, she'd told him something valuable, something he would surely never forget.

"John?" His sister tapped lightly on the doorframe.

"Go away." He snapped from behind the closed surface.

His sister chuckled, "John, let me in."

John sighed; he wasn't one to turn down his big sister. She'd give him hell for it in the future.
So he got up; he got up and he opened the door.

And his sister was immediately ready to draw him in for a hug at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, and swollen cheeks – puffy from his constant rubbing at juvenile tears.

"Was it dad again?"

John nodded.

"What did he do?"

John sniffled, "Yelled again."

His sister pulled him closer, and placed a kiss on his forehead, patting down his short blonde hair with the palm of her hand.
"He's just angry, Johnny."

John nodded again, "I know."

His sister let out a deep breath, as John tucked his chin into the crook of her neck. "Mum's not getting much better."

John tried to weakly reply, but could only respond with a small, quivering whimper.
His sister continued to weave her fingers through his hair, "Is that why you were hiding?"

John attempted to nod, yet again.
Harry smiled sadly, and pulled him out of her warm embrace, to look him dead in the eyes, "You know what, Johnny?"
She began slowly, "When we're hurt, we try not to hurt other people, those we care about,"
She caressed his cheek with her thumb, like their Mum always had, "But we focus so much on increasing the distance, that it turns out to be the very thing hurting them in the end."

The memory had been so overwhelming; John had almost missed the door beckoning his arrival.
He skidded to a halt, took a deep breath, and grabbed at the handle, tugging the door slowly open, and walking toward the scene before his eyes.

Immediately, the commands of working scientists filled his ears. The smell of something chemically balanced burned in his nostrils, and stung his eyes. The air was oddly cool, a strange frigid sensation, against John's bare arms.

And the man in the tank was still there; dark curls spiraling down against his cheeks, as they had yesterday.
Today, however, he was raised on an incline – a metal slab – most likely so that the scientists tinkering with him had it easier to work with.

The "project" was ever so pale, skin nearly bleached. John couldn't help wondering what color those eyes were, what color they had been. His strides slowed as he observed the busy white lab coats. Each held some kind of tool, whether it was a scalpel, or tweezers, or merely a screwdriver. Others held dirtied cloths, or delicate gears and mechanical parts. It was absolutely bewildering, watching them do their work on this man, as though he was some kind of vehicle.

"Dr. Watson!" Dr. Stapleton's voice rang through his ears, and the other scientists looked up for a mere moment, before continuing about their business.

John attempted a nervous smile, which probably had only come out as desperately anxious.

"I see you didn't want to wait." The scientist before him grinned contently, and John went for a nod.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit too eager."

Dr. Stapleton snickered and shook her head, "Oh, John. You can never be too eager."
She ended her statement with a wink, and then gestured toward the tank with an extended hand. John bobbed his head in confirmation, and followed the woman toward the figure draped beautifully over the metal slab.

Once there, one of the scientists, whose fingers had just been fixated over a certain gear-ridden area, turned to John, a bright smile on his face, revealing white teeth which, frankly, shined as bright as his white hair. Dr. Stapleton still had her arm out-stretched, eager to introduce the two.

"John, this is my assistant Bob Frankland. He works closely at my side."

John reached out and shook hands with the pleasantly all-too-happy scientist grinning his way. "Pleasure to meet you."

Dr. Frankland nodded, "Aye, John. I hear you're the new recruit. Be sure you keep this guy safe, won't you?"
He flicked his head over to the sleeping body, so very close to where John stood. When John glanced at him again, he was immediately entranced, just as he ever was. With a bob of his head, John agreed to Dr. Frankland's words, resulting in a smile from the white-haired scientist.

 "You have to be like a clock spring, wound but not loose at the same time." Dave Winfield

 Stapleton then led John closer to the figure lying flat on the grey slab, which ultimately worked as a constant reminder that the man before him, this fascinating man, was dead. John's adrenaline surged even further, as he neared the frozen still body, eyes closed, dark hair dripping in the blue water that currently sat beneath him.

"Today we are focusing on enclosing all open wounds. Finishing the mechanics." Dr. Stapleton informed him, and once she had finished, she quickly snapped her fingers and the scientists, constructing the masterpiece, filed away.

John turned to her and arched a brow, to which the woman merely shrugged and faintly shook her head; "I'd like it quiet while I explain the procedure to you."

John nodded with a small smirk, glad that he could count for something more than a mere "security guard".
John took a few steps toward the corpse, feeling more confident now that the crowding white lab coats had vanished.

Dr. Stapleton trailed behind his every movement, clearing her throat to explain the situation. "Because Mr. Holmes suffered from a drug overdose, it is not so easy to ensure he is thoroughly constructed in all the right areas."

John nodded, listening intently, and now only a few feet away from the man's subtle expression.

"So, as a result, most of his body has been replaced with metallic substances, and mechanical features."

John found himself wincing at the words.
So, what did that ensue?

On the outside he would appear to be a normal man, but on the inside, a machine?

John neared the being, and took a look at the open area surrounding his torso. He couldn't help the gasp that escaped him; gears of all shades, gold and silver and bronze, sat lifelessly in the heart of this corpse's chest. Organs replaced with smooth metal fragments, lungs replaced with clicking controls, and…

"Where's his heart?" John questioned, eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze back to the man's distant features.

Dr. Stapleton sighed and took a step forward, "Yes. You see, the human heart is a little harder to replicate."

John whirled to face the scientist, eyes wide in disbelief, as she seemed to grimace inwardly. "So what? He just won't have one?"

Dr. Stapleton teetered her head back and forth, and shrugged slightly, "It's tough to say, Dr. Watson. The human heart is a complex thing. He will have a metal substance acting as a heart, but it will not have the exact abilities of one."

John swallowed, and then turned, once again, to the man on the slab. He found himself raising a hand to the being's skin, and once aware he was doing so, he immediately froze.

"You may, John. No shock waves as of now."

John chuckled, "That's reassuring."

Dr. Stapleton grinned pleasantly, and observed as John leaned in to place a few gentle fingers on the pale complexion of the man's forearm.

The texture he felt wasn't the feeling that normally emanated off of a human's frail skin. The man was unexplainably cold, and not just because he had no blood flowing through his system, but also because underneath that very same skin, there was several pounds of metal – frail metal; cold, frigid metal. The complexion John's very fingertips sat upon felt oddly soft, too soft to be that of a corpse. His eyes roamed from the man's forearm to his face. For a moment, he had to do a double take. He could have sworn he saw a faint twitch at the corner of the man's lifeless lips. John shook his head slightly and only gazed at the figure so coldly placed on the hard, metal slab. He felt as though the man appeared sad; John's vision twisted his appearance into that of a dejected cringe, eyes closed unwillingly, eyebrows almost furrowed.

"Beautiful, huh?" Stapleton's voice echoed in the small, empty room, and immediately had John springing back to life.

He drew back his hand, cleared his throat and turned to the woman, shooting her a small nod.

She grinned, almost wickedly, and approached the man as well. "He is my creation."
Her pointed fingers moved down to weave through the "project's" curly, dark brown, drenched hair.

John bobbed his head up and down, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the same room as this proud scientist.
He still couldn't decide.

Was this wrong?

Turning a dead man into a machine in order to bring him back to life?

There were the benefits, and then there were also the faults. He would live again, back in the world like he never left, except he would notice the differences, because he would be all machine – his innards replaced with gears and solidified, marble metal. But maybe he would get to see his family again, bask in the sunlight he would miss if he were under the ground.

Then again, perhaps it wouldn't be right. Perhaps they had already moved on.

John couldn't wrap his head around it, and before he could attempt to anymore, he was interrupted by a sharp cold voice.

"Dr. Stapleton, kindly remove your hands."

Both John and the scientist whirled around to take in the sight of a tall, rather intimidating man.

His eyes were narrow, his skin creased at their corners – as though he was always seemingly angry. He was only slightly big-boned, however hardly, and he wore quite the appealing dark grey, striped suit, with a tie, a shade of a faded red. In his right hand, he leaned on a black umbrella, and overall John immediately got three words: wealthy, classy, and government.

Dr. Stapleton momentarily scowled and let out a long sigh, "Mycroft."

John arched a brow, and fixed all his attention on this "Mycroft" character, as he came further into view, approaching their position next to the man on the slab, just above the blue tank.

"Although I do not consider this thing my brother, it is still unsettling to watch you card your fingers through his curly locks." The man's tone of voce was menacing, mocking, and John watched as he ultimately made Dr. Stapleton feel like a tit.

John cleared his throat, stiffening at the word "brother", and Stapleton instantly glanced his way and then toward the newcomer.

"Sorry, John." She huffed and shook her head at this Mycroft. "John Watson, meet Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The brother of Project Chezza."

Mycroft bowed his head intelligently at John's gaping expression, and then neared the being above the tank of blue liquid. John observed the man's features. He seemed sad, disappointed, conflicted. Perhaps, sad that his brother had died so young, perhaps disappointed he had been turned into a machine, and perhaps conflicted by the question of: Is this still my brother?

"When do you plan to resurrect it completely?" Mycroft asked, his eyebrows raised in suspicion.

John winced at the use of "it".

"By the look of things, we just might have everything ready by tomorrow – early morning." Dr. Stapleton clarified, and John was instantly on edge. He was all too eager to hear this man speak, and see him in action; watch as he welcomed life back into his mind again.

"Fine. I will be there." Mycroft confirmed, took one last look at the man on the slab, blinked, took a deep breath, and then slowly turned away and toward the exit.

"Why don't you just admit it?" Dr. Stapleton called out after him, and John narrowed his eyes, watching the two of them intently.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, "Admit what, Jacqui?"

"That you're not just showing up to keep everything in check. That you're actually just showing up to see him again." Stapleton said the words in all seriousness, one hand extending to point at "her creation's" lifeless body, sprawled out on the metal slab.

Mycroft didn't respond to her statement. He simply said his farewell, and exited out of the large laboratory doors. John attempted to swallow the knot in his throat, but was caught unprepared, ultimately resulting in a strained cough.

This caught Stapleton's attention, and she was brought back into reality, spinning around to face John once again.
She shook her head and huffed, "He's all too proud to admit he misses him."

John arched a questionable eyebrow, "Why's that?"

Jacqui laughed, "It's just the way he is. It's the way Sherlock was too."

John cocked his head to the side, glancing over at the frozen still, so pale, so thin, body, "And how's that?"

Dr. Stapleton chuckled sadly and sighed, "Well, the two of them don't care for sentiment, for emotions. It's just not their thing."

John scoffed and smirked slightly, "What do you mean?"

The scientist shrugged, "Well, Sherlock – he was a self-proclaimed sociopath."

John's eyes widened, "Interesting."

Dr. Stapleton nodded and gently swayed over to the small control panel in the corner of the room. She tapped one of the glowing buttons and John watched as the slab "Chezza" was sprawled out on lowered gracefully, bringing the figure back down into the blue water swashing to and fro below him. Then for a moment, the liquid flickered, flashed and then fell utterly still. Shock waves, John presumed.

Dr. Stapleton returned to John's side, and shot him a weary smile, "I'm going to grab a cuppa."

John bobbed his head up and down; understanding now was his time to stay focused on his own task at hand.

"I'll be up again soon. So will the others. We are going to fix him today, so that by tomorrow morning, we will have life." Her statement caused John to jolt slightly.

Life. They would have life.

She sent the retired army doctor a soft smile, and left the way Mycroft Holmes had. Silently, and rather quickly. So, once again, John Watson was left alone with his ever-conflicted thoughts.

 "Don't watch the clock; do what it does. Keep going." 
Sam Levenson

 Mycroft sighed as he thought of his brother reawakening.

It wasn't right.
It wasn't genuine.
It wasn't human.

But when was his brother every rightfully human?

Mycroft smiled gently, remembering the experiments in Mummy's garden, kitchen, sometimes even on their father's bed.
His brother always got beat pretty hard for those ones.

He remembered how his brother used to plead for Mycroft to take him to the morgue or to the graveyard, eager to study the dead and observed the unlawful. Mycroft had almost always turned him down. He inwardly cursed at himself; why did you always turn him down?

He hadn't known his brother, he wouldn't say his name, was unhappy.
He hadn't known he was depressed.
He didn't know about the bullying in his brother's early days, or the drugs, or the excess smoking.

He'd always known about the loneliness though.
His brother had always been lonely; he hated people, hated interaction, and hated emotions.

That was partially Mycroft's fault.

He taught his brother how to not cry, and how to not feel.
He had turned his little brother into a full-fledged, high-functioning sociopath, and he hated himself for it.

But what was he to do?

His brother was dead.
He was dead.

No ridiculous government "project" would change that, even if they did have his little brother walking around like a mechanical zombie.

That thing they are experimenting with is and never will be his brother.

His brother was never made of gears or controls or mechanics; his brother was warm, bled like a normal person, functioned like a normal person (most of the time).

It wasn't like Mycroft wanted this. He despised the fact that his brother hadn't wanted a funeral or a viewing.
He despised the fact that his brother gave up his remains to science, to something he would never even come to face in the after-life.

Until now, of course. That volatile scientist was poking him, prodding him, tweaking him; turning him into her own personal robot.

He sighed again, I'm sorry Sherlock. I'm so sorry.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Isochronal Error
(A fancy way of saying a mainspring has more power when it is fully wound, than when it is run down. The power curve of a mainspring is non-linear, thus resulting in timekeeping errors.)

John was fine waiting.

Waiting till the scientists came back, waiting until he was relieved of his duty.
And so he had waited, and just like that his shift had begun. On and off, on and off.

A continuous routine, that, frankly, John Watson didn't mind.

He was guarding quite a fascinating figure anyways, so it gave him a lot to look at.
Well, some would say not much, but to John it was spellbinding.

He merely stood there, by the tank's side, observing the way dark locks flowed above the rim of blue water, the way the closed eyes unwillingly twitched in the liquid's illusion.

And he did so until Dr. Stapleton returned to send him away with a friendly smile, where he only waited some more, perhaps in the café, gazing blankly out the windows at the barren wasteland that seemed to surround the facility. And he would remain there, until Dr. Stapleton fetched him again.

That day, John had been responsible for a night shift. It was rather eerie at night. Everything was too quiet, apart from the slow murmuring of the shock waves and machines surrounding John's position, or the tiniest ripples sounding from the electrified water.

John merely stared, waiting once again, ever so patient, just so that he could see this man come to life before his eyes. John was on edge because of it, his mind spiraling down into the depths of clarity, clearly eager, for once, with the result of his reality.

John never fell tired that night.

Observing the other man, his eyes closed in an ever so final slumber, had him wide awake; the expression lingered in his thoughts, 'We can sleep when we're dead'. Completely and utterly true – the man before him only appeared to be deep in sleep, but John knew otherwise.

The hours had ticked by faster than Dr. John Watson thought possible. He had been startled back into reality by the blast of laboratory doors swinging open, sending him on edge, ready for any fight that would be ultimately presented before him.

But it was merely a grinning Dr. Stapleton, Bob Frankland and a few other scientists trailing behind her glowing mood. She approached the retired army doctor, still smiling pleasantly his way, as her employees fanned out to her sides, eager to begin their work on the figure sprawled out flat on the tank's surface.

"John! You did exceptionally well." The scientist chuckled, "I knew I made the right choice recruiting you."

John beamed and sent her an affirmative nod, while she strolled over to the control panel, in the corner of the room.

John narrowed his eyes, upon looking at her closely. She was dressed far more appealing that before: her white lab coat covering a fancy red dress, and red heels to match, hiding her feet. Her hair was down, reaching just below her shoulders, and curling at the ends in a formal manner, and John couldn't help but find her oddly attractive. Her features were still all too pointy for his liking, but she looked...nice.

When she turned around, she caught John's eyes and her grin ultimately heightened in length, "I had to be dressed for occasion."

John cocked his head to the side and took a step forward, "I'm sorry?"

Dr. Stapleton smiled some more, flicked the shock waves off, and inclined the metal slab below her "creation".
"We have representatives coming in today, John Watson."

John froze, suddenly internally slapping himself, as he was unsure how he could forget. Lack of sleep maybe? But he wasn't exhausted.
Maybe he was all too eager, and it was blinding his common sense.

His hands trembled, slightly, in anticipation and he could feel the realization dawning upon him. This creation, this being he was responsible of keeping safe was going to wake up, open his eyes. Eyes that had remained closed for so long, eyes that John desperately wished to know the color off.

"Right! Of course!" John found himself exclaiming, straining to hold back a large grin as Dr. Stapleton politely smiled and neared the rim of her "project's" tank. John took note that she seemed faintly nervous, but in a confident way – if that made any sense. Her eyes were downcast, as if deep in thought, while her head was held high in pride. John couldn't tell whether there was excitement there or not, but he guessed 'anxiousness', no doubt.

She peered down at the motionless figure, her features instantly softening, and reached out to gently to push back a loose strand of hair, lying stubbornly on the man's damp forehead. "Sleep time's over, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." It was merely a whisper but John heard it, and he ultimately stiffened, blinked, and let out a long, much-needed sigh.

Taking one more glance at the frozen-still being, John squirmed and swallowed deeply. This was going to be exciting.

 For the time they had before the "representatives" got there, the scientists seemed entirely concentrated.

Bob Frankland and a few other white coats hurried to close the man's concaved torso, placing every gear, or mechanism, inside with so much grace, poise, and delicacy. When they finally finished, and covered the mechanical insides with a strange materialistic skin (John couldn't even decipher what it was and it made him feel utterly stupid), the man lying on the metal slab seemed so much more alive.

He no longer had that metallic shine emanating from an empty rib cage. He no longer looked like some machine, some robot. John couldn't help but let out a breath of relief. Dr. Stapleton seemed content with the outcome as well, as when she took sight of him, in her words "complete", she squealed in a mild manner and clapped her hands victoriously.

While some white coats relished in their duty of unstitching the wires, Dr. Stapleton and Dr. Frankland went about making the "project" look good.
This figure, this man; was it possible he could look any better than he already did? It was absolutely apparent, to any person, whether they were masculine or feminine, that this man was beautiful, and the fact that he could be even more so astonished John.

They smoothed back his long curly locks of hair; smoothed down the tarnished skin littered with injection scars, wire inserts, and electrical charges, and even fixed the tight, leather-type suit he wore in the confines of his little tank.

As John observed, he watched the small droplets slide off his skin like he was a mere glass object, never stirring, simply looking pretty for all the world to see him. Somehow, deep down, John despised this. He despised seeing this man buttered up just so some scientist's goal could be accomplished.

He found himself doing this very thing often – arguing with the rights and wrongs of what he'd gotten himself intertwined with.
Clearly, he didn't regret accepting the opportunity, but he also worried about what circumstances that resulted in. He knew how many people opposed this whole organization, this whole project they called "Chezza". But John simply remained to numb to all but one feeling at the current moment: fascination.

 "Clock watchers never seem to be having a good time."
James Cash Penney

By the time the doors to the laboratory opened, Dr. Stapleton was finished with her "touch-ups", and was fixing her hair, not to mention patting down her white lab coat that covered her small, petite dress.

The men that walked in were exactly the way John imagined they would be. Some tall, some short, mostly all plump, a belly extending out and into the space above their waists, which sported their hemmed trousers, black or brown or khaki slacks, supported by a classy leather belt and classic leather shoes. They either wore fancy dress shirts, or ties with suit jackets, and they all looked entirely arrogant and highly wealthy, their noses turned up in observation, their eyes narrowed as they judged every mark-up of the place.

Among the governmental men, stood Mycroft Holmes, mumbling to a small woman beside him, who John recognized as 'not-Anthea'. He seemed utterly bored for the time being, and in a way, completely heart-broken.

John instantly tensed at their arrival, his insides squirming, anxious sensations and eager notions threatening to overtake his every thought. He watched as each face fell onto the tank and its current occupant, now above the water, sprawled out on the metal slab, looking luxurious in his newly bare layout.

The wires were gone, his concave torso was no longer concave, apart from being utterly skinny, and he looked entirely human. John knew better though. Each man's eyes seemed to harden when they took note of the experiment, and John immediately knew he didn't like them. Any of them. Except maybe Mycroft. He felt sorry for Mycroft, at least.

He was jerked rapidly from his thoughts when the head scientist stepped forward, smiling kindly to the officials surrounding her workspace – just enough space mapped out that they could still perform their procedure a good distance away.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Dartmoor." She began, grinning eagerly, and taking a swift at John before continuing.

"I'm sure you all know what I have been working on here. Project 'Chezza' is the first of its kind, from any scientist, and it will be the first to succeed. I assure you of that." Swallowing thickly, she smirked and went on, "Before you all, we have corpse. A corpse by the name of Sherlock Holmes."

John observed as Mycroft flinched ever so slightly, and not-Anthea put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes was twenty-three when he died, a little under a year ago. Drug overdose. Seeing as though most of the damage was to his organs, and the area surrounding his torso and chest, we had to be sure this was all fixed before returning him to the world."

Dr. Stapleton was a natural, in John's opinion. He could already see the representatives turning their noses up in an impressed manner.

"So, I concluded that machines were the only option. We use machines so much in this day and age. To connect with others, to surf the web, to find the information we need for whatever we need it on. Why not do the same with a person?"

Dr. Stapleton extended her arm, palm up and open as she directed the attention back to the man in the tank.

"Mr. Holmes' body is almost entirely machine. This will help him to function with out needing constant medical attention, apart from the recharging process, which implies that Mr. Holmes will need an electrical force to," She paused, as if searching for the right words, "recharge his battery, so to speak."

A voice from the crowd rose above the noise, stopping Stapleton before she could continue. A representative arched a brow and asked, "Like sleep?"

Jacqui nodded and grinned proudly, "Precisely, like sleep." She then went on, "Now, as I've said, in previous proclamations, this is a process to revive the once dead. To bring back someone you love, or care about. To stop the pain of grief, and loss."

Her face scrunched up for a mere moment, only to regain its solid composure, "But, as this is the first trial, we need the subject entirely for its brain, so to speak. We need the mind of the man who returned from the dead. Therefore, we held back from a heart, fearing it may interfere."

John held back his gasp.
He hadn't been told that.
Hadn't been told that they decided not to add a heart.
He was beginning to see a darker side of Jacqui Stapleton.

"What he has currently is a mere substitute, one that will not interfere with brain work, or so we desire."

Another representative lurched forward, eyes narrowed suspiciously, chin jiggling as he asked his attentive question, "So his brain, does that remain the same?"

Stapleton smiled wickedly, "Yes, in fact. Mr. Holmes was a genius, so no computer or machine replaced his mind, or brain. We do not want to create a robot, or a mere mechanical man, my friends," She let out an innocent sigh, which irked John more than he thought it would, "we merely want to bring a good man back to life."

With that, she clip-clopped in her heels over to a small counter near the control panel, where computers and papers were thrown, scattered across its surface. She lunged open a small drawer, and pulled out a small, metallic block of metal, holding it up high for every one to see.

"This here," She smirked, and held it out across from John, where he could get a good look at it, same as the representatives, "is a chip. A hard-drive, if you will."

John froze.
He knew where this was going.
And he didn't like it.
Whatsoever.

Taking a glance at the group, they all appeared oblivious, except for Mycroft, fidgeting uncomfortably behind them all.

"It holds Mr. Holmes' memory."

Small gasps and whispers sounded from the clan of government officials, and Stapleton was suddenly appearing very smug with herself. John swallowed the knot stuck in his throat, and found himself clearing it instead.

This wasn't right.
This was going too far.
Wasn't it?

Wasn't this woman taking away this man's right to freedom, privacy, and his own thoughts?
Sure, he's dead, but did that justify it?

Jacqui took a step forward, pride seeping over her expression, "With a series of inserts, we were able to create quite the hard-drive in Mr. Holmes' mind. He still has his intellect, but no memories, unless we insert the drive."

Before she could say another word, there was a sharp outburst from the back of the laboratory. "This is ridiculous."

The scientists and the entire group of representatives turned to gaze at Mycroft's angered position.
"I know for a fact my brother did not agree on all…this." He snapped, gesturing to the whole set up, all the control panels, all the buttons, and all the information Stapleton was informing them of.

Dr. Stapleton sighed wistfully, "Mycroft, please do not interrupt me. I will not hesitate to escort you out. Don't you wish to see your brother wake?"

Mycroft stiffened, scowled, and stayed put.

"Good," Stapleton grinned and turned back to the men before her, "Any questions?"

When no one raised a hand or posed a comment, Dr. Stapleton was positively beaming. "Alright then. Let's begin."

John had one, a question, but refrained from asking it.
He simply asked himself.

Who was the man on the slab without his memories?

 "History is not everything, but it is a starting point. History is a clock that people use to tell their political and cultural time of day. It is a compass they use to find themselves on the map of human geography. It tells them where they are but, more importantly, what they must be."
John Henrik Clarke

John watched carefully, cautiously, and intently, as the scientists continued to simply push buttons.

White lab coats hovered over the figure again, poking and prodding, wires attached once more, vital signs constantly monitored. Dr. Stapleton was by the man's body, doing god-knows-what, and John was internally cringing.

He was suddenly very put off this woman.
Perhaps she had showed her true colors.
Quite a scandalous, evil thing – she was.

The representatives merely whispered amongst themselves, doing the same as John – watching and observing every little detail with open, eager eyes. John was excited to seem the being come to life, sure, but this felt wrong. He felt as though he was in on some torturous torment to a poor caged animal with a lack of ability to fight back. The whirring of a machine coming to life sent him trembling.

He glanced over at the scientists, their white lab coats flying out behind them as their eyes hurriedly vibrated over the monitored vital signs. Signs of life. That's what had gotten them all rile up. John was fervent to take a look but stayed put, simply listening to the utterly haunting beeping and eerie mechanical motion.

"Specimen is charged and ready." Frankland called out, sending John in a fury at the way he classified the brilliant man on the slab.

Stapleton nodded firmly and pointed to a small scientist in the corner of the room, standing beside the control panel, "Flip the switch!"

Her command echoed through the laboratory and all the governmental men were on edge; keen on witnessing the result of her experiment – same as John to his own shame.

Then, John closed his eyes.

It was a blur of white coats, a symphony of beeps and bangs and startling alerts. Representatives cooed in amazement, astonished by the way the scientists worked. Mycroft seemed hesitant in the corner, appearing as though, to John, that he was debating with himself over whether he should just leave now – save himself the pain. Stapleton was yelling orders, Frankland was dashing from one side of the tank to the other, and John as merely frozen. Like a block of ice, waiting to crack. And then it fell silent, and the ice melted. Scientists took a few steps back; Stapleton's eyes grew large in victory, and the representatives swallowed and stumbled backwards, too numb for words.

John decided to open his eyes. And he was glad he did.

The sight that awaited him was so breath taking; he had to take a few steps closer to the being on the metal slab. And when every one was inching backward, he was moving forward.

Blue – no grey? Silver? Green, with flecks of gold? Fascinating. Those eyes – the eyelids having slowly opened in confusion, bringing the figure to take in the dark, brown, metallic ceiling above him. His first image: an eerie laboratory. How pleasant. John regarded him with the utmost amount of respect and awe. This man was a miracle. He had been dead and now he was living. But was he truly living?

The eyes waited for a moment, staring dead ahead; the man's position still lying flat on his back and taking in the sight above him. John didn't dare move any more – no one did. Everyone was still, watching the man come into the light of the living. When his eyes had taken in everything they could, he twitched slightly, his finger rising, and then falling again. John watched, merely astonished and bewildered.

The man blinked, then twitched again. Then his head moved - it turned to catch a glimpse of the wires attached to his body, the suction pads monitoring his vitals, the aching feeling in his chest. His expression was only a blank stare.

Then his eyes met John's.
No one else's.
Just John's.

And John immediately felt helpless.

The man gazed at him; with a desperate plead for…what was that? Sanity? Normality?
John interpreted it as a cry for help.

His eyes revealed more than his pale features, and perfectly sculpted expression. They were lost, empty – innocent. John was hurt. He looked into those orbs of unfathomable hues and fell completely, and utterly, depressed. Because now he felt like the villain. The one who did this – the one who brought back a, finally at peace, man and turned him into a machine one could simply switch on and off.

Once his eyes had fallen from John's, the retired army doctor let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. The man on the slab moved more now, attempting to sit upwards in an act of getting a grip on what the hell was going on. And that's when the scientists went about their duty.

Stapleton clapped in success, followed by the many bursts of praise from the group of representatives. John couldn't remove his eyes, simply ignoring the celebration behind him and only watching as the man on the slab fell entirely confused, and frightened. That's when the figure pulled his arms from the wires, pulled himself to sit upright, and gazed out at the crowd, grinning maliciously his way, like he was some prize to be won.

John decided to look as well, now that the being did the same, and caught the cowering position of Mycroft Holmes. He seemed entirely, and undeniably, frozen by disbelief. His eyes were wide, a bead of sweat sat on his forehead, and his brows were furrowed in shock.

John swallowed, pity welling up on him for the state of the "project's" brother, and then he turned back to the figure himself.
A few scientists were carefully approaching him now, arms out in a steady surrender, but the being wasn't having it. His eyes simply vibrated over the audience, afraid and…scrutinizing? Stapleton was taking a few steps forward now, confident in her ability to get him to settle down.

Who did she think she was?

John couldn't imagine.

You've suddenly woken up from a deep dark slumber, finding yourself educated in so many things, so incredibly intelligent, but remembering nothing of memories? He was an empty shell, merely used for his intellect.

And when Stapleton tried to speak with him, John found himself furious. "Hello." She grinned, and raised her hands in the air, palms up.

"My name is Jacqui Stapleton. I'm a friend."

The beautiful figure on the slab narrowed his eyes, instantly causing his cheekbones to stand out even sharper, and his curls to bounce effortlessly. This newly revived Sherlock Holmes glanced over at John Watson, and the doctor felt himself shiver due to the intimacy.

The man was staring at him in a way that seemed as though he was asking permission. Permission for what – John didn't know.

John held his gaze, and softened his amazed features, watching as the man on the slab above the tank did the same. And John was yet again completely mind-blown. It was like this being was looking to him for guidance.

Why? Because he was the first face that face had seen?
Because John looked innocent, friendly enough?

He wasn't sure, but Sherlock Holmes turned to glare at Stapleton in an entirely uncomforting way, to which the scientist only grinned wider. "Stapleton."

The deep voice was startling – baritone and symphonic, utterly inviting and soothing and divine. This man was incredibly extraordinary.
John felt himself easing into the voice, but the words that followed shook him instantly.

"You have a daughter of whom you tell everything to, everything except the story of Bluebell, the glow-in-the-dark rabbit. Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?" Jacqui swallowed and took a glance at the crowd, who all seemed completely mind-blown.

John only stared in utter admiration.

Dr. Stapleton then turned back to him, and her adoration heightened, "You are fantastic. Absolutely fantastic."

Sherlock didn't seem touched by this whatsoever and merely turned toward the crowd, eyes landing on Bob Frankland. "You killed your best friend, and fooled his ten-year-old son into believing a wild animal did so. Question is, why? I'm getting jealousy, and perhaps this friend of yours was threatening to disrupt something important to you – a science experiment, maybe."

Frankland swallowed, and shook his head in amazement. No one seemed too concerned with the information just currently displayed – they were only concerned with the being, connected to wires and stabilizers, on the metal slab.

The "project" continued his method of blunt honesty through all the representatives and scientists in the crowd. He revealed things like how one of them had once attempted suicide, or how one of them had a son who married a distant cousin no one knew about.

John felt like he couldn't breathe.

He was suddenly so thankful he'd ever been offered this job opportunity, because if he hadn't, he would have never set eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock's sliver shimmering eyes landed on Mycroft, standing guiltily in the back of the laboratory, the man froze, and the experiment narrowed his eyes.

"Your brother commit suicide, and you blame yourself. It's unclear why, however. You were not overly close, but somehow you feel as though it's your fault he's gone."

That was when Mycroft left. And John understood why.

How was it, to be accused of all your secrets, by the very person they are about, and know they don't even realize it?

Sherlock found himself gazing at John. His mouth opened, and his eyes glowed in excitement, which John found entirely comforting – in an odd way. But the man wasn't able to deduce John's very life, because a loud, startling beeping had arisen and interrupted his very speech.

John's head whirled to face the monitor revealing the man's vital signs, and when he turned back to check on the "project", his eyes were wide in anguish and his mind seemed to have gone entirely blank.

Stapleton spun around, racing toward the small computer near the control panel, and huffed in exasperation.

"Malfunction. He needs to be charged. He's used too much of his energy on his mind."

The crowd watched in awe and understanding as the scientist approached the man slowing shutting down. John observed the magnificent being's expression go dark, eyes fluttering to a close, even while still sitting up. He seemed so vulnerable now, and it irritated John. He wanted to dash over to him, hold his head, before he felt back against the slab, but he was instead pushed to the side as white lab coats gathered around him, lying him slowly down. They got him comfortable on the surface of the cold metallic shine, even while he still twitched to hold onto consciousness.

And John's own heart hurt as Jacqui Stapleton flicked a few buttons, turning the man into a numb, silent machine, and lowering him down into a pool of blue water, gleaming with shock waves.

 "Time management is an oxymoron. Time is beyond our control, and the clock keeps ticking regardless of how we lead our lives. Priority management is the answer to maximizing the time we have."

John C. Maxwell

Chapter Text

 Chapter 4: Fuzee

(A design by which the power from the mainspring of a clock is delivered to the rest of the system through a spiral cone shaped spool with grooves for the increases the amount of power available with respect to the top end, thus effectively eliminating the effect of isochronal error by mechanically equalizing the power delivered by the mainspring.)

John just watched. Hell, he felt like that was all he ever did. Just watched.

Observed how the scientists continued to prod, working on stabilizing their creation, working to make sure his energy levels were on an average course. He’d watched the representatives grin at one another, holding tight to their clipboards and files, each dismissed by Stapleton, her eyes sparkling as they all said goodbye in a means of admiration and praise. Jacqui Stapleton was thoroughly giddy. How could she not be?

Her experiment, her project, was a success. She had claimed the appreciation and approval of the higher-order government officials, and she had, in turn, been commended on her risky, yet unbelievably impossible results. She had won, evidently. John couldn’t help but feel a slight amount of excitement and admiration in the midst of all his disgust for her. She was, ultimately, very intelligent, having had the ability to reawaken the dead, but she raveled in it far too much.

It wasn’t right to do this to a man. Left to deal with the overpowering amount of knowledge his mind held, knowing only what he woke up from and nothing of who he was before the whole ordeal. The man had opened his eyes to an audience – a slimy, cruel bunch of people; grinning at him with wide, white smiles. It would be terrifying. Not only the fact that he looked at each and every one of the guests and spat off a monologue of their life stories.

Imagine, knowing too much? Knowing all this information about someone but unsure as to why – forgetting who you were before. It astonished John, and he wasn’t able to pry his gaze from the “project” the whole time, even if it made him just as judgmental as the surrounding foes. He couldn’t help it. The man was beautiful, anyone could see that, and he was a walking miracle – a phenomenon.

But John saw, when the being had peered into his eyes for the first time, an unmistakable amount of vulnerability, hiding behind the overflowing intelligence. Yet, the scientists and government representatives didn’t seem to see the same as the retired army doctor. Instead, they gawked at “Sherlock Holmes” with wide eyes, and sneers that would scare away the smallest child. They saw him as a price, as something to make money off of, as something to relieve them of the threat of unknown knowledge, hidden in the upcoming future. Knowledge of death, and money for the impossible project that had came back from the idea of it.

John Watson knew it wasn’t right, and that was the reason he stuck around. He couldn’t leave now. Not when he was seemingly the only human being here who realized exactly what the “project” was feeling.

Stapleton had closed the thick lab doors behind the representatives, and only John, herself, Frankland, and a few other white lab coats remained. John felt uncomfortable, hesitant to ask the questions that plagued his mind, but when Stapleton headed back his way to type on her black laptop, pull a few levers and tap a few buttons, John made his move, taking a step forward to face her in close proximity.

“What happened?”

Jacqui arched a brow, smiling softly, and rather sincerely, as John gazed in confusion. “As I said, Dr. Watson. Just a malfunction.”

John narrowed both eyes and shook his head, “But you said he needed to be charged, which is normal, isn’t it? So why is that a malfunction?”

Stapleton was now full on smirking, as she continued to swipe her fingertips over her computer’s keyboard. “Someone was paying attention.”

Her grin widened as she trotted around her desk and up toward the man under the cool, blue water, eyes shut tight – so strange to John, as they had only just opened. His hair still floated delicately around him, the water straightening most of his curls, as they swayed around his cheekbones and the back of his neck.

Due to her command, buttons had forced the flat surface; he was sprawled out on, to incline upwards, and out of the now ceasing voltage.

“John, it is a malfunction because we want – we need – him to stay awake longer. It is not easy to learn from him if he can only use his brain for less than ten minutes.” She sounded angry, perhaps with herself, which, to John, was understandable. This woman was ticked off with herself because she felt she had failed in her new task – which was the idea of learning from her little “project”.

“I see.” John couldn’t form any other words so he simply watched as Stapleton leaned over the tank’s border, reaching down to touch her finger to Sherlock’s chest. She then turned to John as if attempting to explain.

“The wires connected to him now, John, are the charges empowering him. They are the fuel to the machine.”

John winced, and suddenly felt very, very, very pissed off.

Whether, she realized it or not, Dr. Stapleton was somehow defying everything she had sought out to obtain in this little mission of hers.

“As we proceed, we are looking to make this a portable set up. Wires connected to a sort of battery power if you will, “ She paused, glancing back down to the being in the blue water, “It can be easily transported, so that if he was ever to move, anywhere at all, he could simply take the battery with him, and leave the tank, and machinery attached, behind.”

John nodded, seemingly getting the gist of things. If they were to bring people back from the dead, the “newly revived” didn’t want to spend life in a tank twenty-three hours a day. It made sense, of course, but John still didn’t see it as beneficial.

As if reading his mind, Stapleton countered, “Soon, once we get the upgrades in balance, he will no longer need to charge for such a long while. If we reach our goals, he will merely need it for, perhaps, three to four hours in a full day.”

John’s eyebrows rose to this: impressive, sure. It would certainly make for longer conversation of course. John felt selfish in all this. He merely wanted Stapleton to hurry on with her so-called “upgrade” so that the being in the tank could deduce him as he had the others, so that they could speak to one another. Like two friends would, so that John could learn about the man – what he was currently feeling, what he knew, how he was taking everything. Oh, shut up, John. You’re not a psychiatrist. He felt somewhat greedy as well, somewhat sinister. In a way, he was doing this for the same reason Stapleton was. He wanted to learn – just about different things – but in his defense, they were fairly more innocent, more sympathetic things. He wanted to treat this man like he was, in fact, a friend.

Perhaps he’s mad for thinking like that, but he could merely shrug it off.

Stapleton had long since turned away from the army doctor, and was now spitting orders out at Frankland and the others, telling them to begin the upgrade and continue the charge. John had fallen back into a relaxed manner, simply gazing thoughtfully at the still “out cold” being on the slab, fingers prodding at his limbs, and plastering wires to his every organ. Some of it made John wince – maybe when they inserted certain needles, or thumbed over metallic skin and bone that had replaced “Sherlock’s” used-to-be-destroyed body parts.

John was so caught up in his own mind – due to the ideas swarming his every thought – that he had nearly thoroughly tuned out the slamming on the lab door and the shouts that came with it. John spun around, observing Stapleton and the others already staring at the entrance. The retired-army doctor traced his fingertips over his gear, the weapons he had been given as a guard to the project behind him, preparing himself for the worst.

“Sir, you do not have permission-“

“Of course I have bloody permission!”

John knew the voice, and once the man pushed on through the doorframe and passed the protesting scientists, John recognized him. Mycroft Holmes was, of course, a hard man to forget. His suit was ruffled, same as his fair, caramel brown hair. He was gripping his umbrella so hard in his right hand that his knuckles had begun to turn white. John realized, at that moment, that if this were an old-fashioned cartoon, Mycroft would be the angry character with steam whistling out of his ears, face red with outrage. And John, in turn, was empathetic – he didn’t blame him whatsoever.

John stiffened, not wanting to be the one to have to escort him out, but once he turned to catch a glimpse of Stapleton’s reaction, he sighed in relief. She was the definition of calm, not trifled in anyway by Mycroft’s enraged expression. She merely tossed a hand in the air, dismissing the scientists of whom were trying to keep Mycroft from entering any further. Mycroft shrugged a shoulder, forcing off one of the white lab coats’ hands, and immediately straightened his suit.

“Mr. Holmes.” Jacqui let out a deep, seemingly disappointed breath of air, and went back to fixing her focus on the other Holmes, lying on a hard metal slab.

“You have overstepped every boundary, Stapleton!” Mycroft snapped, glaring at the woman who reached to inspect the “specimen’s” wire control. The scientist merely ignored him; almost eager on allowing him to have is little unnerved tantrum.

“My brother agreed to donate all he was to the scientific need, but he did not agree on playing lab rat!”

John winced at the words, in all his honesty, openly agreeing with Mycroft Holmes.

“I did not expect this shell of Sherlock to wake completely unaware of who I was! Or even, who he was!”

Stapleton spun around at this, and sighed audibly, “Mr. Holmes, you are getting far too worked up over this.”

John grimaced at her nerve. Mycroft took another step forward, causing the army doctor to stiffen, and Stapleton to merely crack a smirk.

“Oh, am I?” He spat out, glowering sharply at the woman he saw as insufferable.

“Indeed. You see, Mycroft, we are not keeping his memories from him forever.”

The project’s brother seemed to soften at this, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“We merely need him to stay purely ‘knowledge’ while we run the tests required, and learn what we need to know. Once that is done, we will insert the memory card and give him to you.” Stapleton seemed utterly pleased with herself, and grinned at Mycroft’s blank expression. “It’s only till we get rid of the minor errors, like the one we just had – a temporary, easily fixed isochronal error.” She then began to chuckle, all whilst approaching her laptop sat on the empty desk once more, “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

John watched as Mycroft scowled, still seemingly pissed with the scientist, as she typed away doing God-knows-what. The clearing of a throat knocked them all from the intensity of the brewing argument, and the tension disappeared once Frankland appeared before them, smirking slightly, yet nervously their way. Stapleton looked up, eyes wide with interest as her head-scientist loomed in front of them.

“Yes?”

Bob nodded and bit his lip, eyes glancing at John, then Mycroft, and then back to his boss, “The upgrade is progressing nicely, Dr. Stapleton. It should be finished fairly soon.”

Jacqui arched a brow, and straightened to better stare down her employee. “How soon?”

Frankland shrugged slightly, looking up for a moment as if in thought, and then back down, “Give or take ten minutes.”

Stapleton bobbed her head up and down in comprehension, turning back to John and Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes, would you like to stay? We are going to have your brother awake longer this time, and attempt to divulge him in a clear conversation.”

From Mycroft’s expression, he knew the man longed to say no, but couldn’t bring himself to. The ‘British government’ nodded slowly, and took a few steps back, “I’ll watch from the sidelines.”

John noted he still seemed entirely outraged, but didn’t appear to have the energy to orchestrate it.

The scientist, hovering in front of John now, her coat blindly white, raised her chin in questioning. “John? I assume you wish to stay?” Hell, her “project” was the only reason he was really here for in the first place – so John nodded, vigorously. Dr. Stapleton grinned, and turned back to the tank.

“Alright then. Let’s begin.”

Again, John added, excitement coursing through his veins. 

“I must govern the clock, not be governed by it.”
-Golda Meir

 John found himself watching again. Of course.

He watched as the white lab coats bustled around the laboratory, eyes wide in anticipation, while Mycroft stood hunched over in the corner, not-Anthea now standing beside him, as he had most likely texted her, in need of his own sort of support – which John could understand. Stapleton was currently dragging an ugly grey chair over to where the metal slab was inclined, it’s screeching nearly driving John insane. Frankland was stood by the laptop along with the multicolored switches, levers, and buttons, typing furiously. The others were carefully, yet rather haphazardly, removing the wires from the suctions gripping firmly to the “project’s” pale, white skin. John jiggled his leg where he stood, switching his weight over from one leg to the other. He was nervous this time. It was only a mere handful of people observing this time, no representatives for Sherlock to deduce – and frankly, John was the only person in this room he hadn’t deduced. That was what unsettled him, in an excited, anxious sort of way.

Stapleton sat in the metallic glazed chair, calling over her shoulder to Frankland, “Charge?”
Bob Frankland immediately answered with, “98%.”

She nodded firmly and snapped a finger at another scientist, “Dr. Livingston! Bring me my file!” A shorter man trotted over in his white coat and leaned down to hand the ‘sitting Stapleton’ her navy blue folder. She thanked him with a bob of her head and ripped it open, causing several papers to flap in outrage of being disturbed. She dragged out a white sheet, revealing multiple typed questions, and tucked it gently into her lap, closing the file, then, and placing on the floor by her feet.

“Frankland?”

“Subject is charged and ready.”

“Flip the switch.”

It was silent for what felt like years to John, and he was starting to think nothing was going to happen, that Stapleton’s project had actually failed to work, and she’d lost her opportunity. But he’d thought too soon. Those same multicolored silver-blue-gold-green eyes fluttered open, and the man had once again returned to his living surroundings. John squirmed in his stance, watching (of course) as the curly haired head rose minutely to take in all gazing down upon him.

John admired the sharp cheekbones again, shadowed exquisitely against the bleached color of his skin. He admired the curly that were dripping water on the ends, and, even though severely ruffled, still appeared beautiful in contrast to his eyes. His lean, long, slender body moved in delicate ways, making grace a priority, as the man attempted to sit upward again, taken by all the strangeness surrounding his current position.

Then, ruining John’s admirable gaze, Stapleton leaned forwards in her chair, her arm extending to reach up to her “project’s” jaw line. John held his breath, observing the scientist preparing to make physical contact for…was this the first time? When her fingertip grazed the sharp bone, Sherlock Holmes flinched, and whirled to face her, staring wide-eyed in, perhaps, fear.

“It’s alright, I’m a friend, remember? We’ve met before.”

When the man on the slab refused to answer, Frankland cleared his throat, “Perhaps he doesn’t remember? Could be another isochronal error.”

The being only seemed to ignore Stapleton and Frankland, as his eyes vibrated across everything and everyone in the room, desperately searching. Searching for what? That’s when his silver, shattered orbs landed on John’s own of deep indigo. They settled and John broke into a full on stare. Both simply peering at each other; John’s expression confused, and Sherlock’s – frightened? Pleading? Begging?

Stapleton had obviously caught sight of this, and narrowed her own eyes at the being, before turned to glare at John, “Oh, no. He remembers just fine.”

John barely heard her words – he just continued to watch the man, sitting dead still on hard metal, still soaking wet from his crystallized, and blue tank, nearly glowing with the amount of voltage he had been in contact with.

“John.”

John’s jumped in place, startled by the sudden exclamation, and he turned his eyes onto Dr. Stapleton, smiling smugly his way. She was out of her seat, holding the sheet of her paper firmly in both hands, just in front of her knees.

John swallowed, “Y-yes?” He cursed himself for stuttering.

Stapleton released one hand from the edge of the paper and gestured to the chair, “Please. Sit.”

John couldn’t exactly refuse, could he? He swallowed once more, thicker this time, and slowly swayed toward the woman, eyeing both the metal chair and the cold eyes gazing from an identically colored metal slab. She handed him the white sheet of paper in her hand, so white it was blinding to John, and he slowly took it from her.

“Questions, John. Ask him these for me, and be gentle.”

John peered down at the typed sentences. What’s your favorite color? How do you feel right now? How many people are in this room? His eyes narrowed.

“Why me?” He stammered, clearing his throat awkwardly under the current amount of pressure, all while feeling the brilliantly colored, and pleading eyes burning into his back.

Stapleton smiled warily, and took a glance over John’s shoulder at the project. “Because he seems to take more to you than anyone else here. I noticed it before too.”

John bit his cheek, wanting to protest, but holding back due to his own adrenaline, the thrill pumping through his veins. He caught a glimpse of Mycroft squirming in the back of the room, mostly hidden by the darkness of the laboratory’s shadows – anxiousness. John sighed, held tighter to the paper, nodded his head once, firmly, and took a seat in the rock hard, metal chair.

Then he was face to face with the being, the project, the experiment, the specimen – the man. Brilliant, even still. Sherlock Holmes cocked his head to side, faintly, appearing in close resemblance to that of a confused dog, and John couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello.”

The retired army doctor’s voice seemed to almost jog the being in his place, causing him to flinch at the sudden sound, directed directly at him. John waited, but wasn’t surprised when Sherlock failed to respond – just continued to stare, making John feel as though he was being pulled apart, to reveal each and every secret he held most dear.

“My name is John Watson.” He tried, and this got him a result.

“What is my name?” The deep baritone sounded, and shook John in his seat.

He bit his lip at the question, inhaled sharply, and glanced over at Stapleton, now occupying John’s job of ‘watching’.
She nodded once, informing him it was okay to answer. “Well – um – your name is Sherlock Holmes.”

The eyes dropped to the floor, and off of John, simply appearing empty now. No thought, no emotion, no feeling. Just a blank slate. John readjusted himself in the chair, just as Sherlock looked up again. “John Watson.” The voice was endearing, at the least, especially saying his name, “Were you in the war?”

John thought he might have squeaked out loud when the being asked him his next question. Wait – wasn’t John the one who was supposed to be asking the questions? When did this turn around on him?

Stapleton stiffened across the room, and Mycroft seemed instantly intrigued.

John didn’t even answer the project – he didn’t need to.

“You limp slightly when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair, you merely stand as if forgetting about it, so that must mean it’s at least partly psychosomatic. If it’s psychosomatic then something traumatic was the cause of it. Judging by the tan, the dog tags around your neck, and the idea of trauma, you were obviously in the war. Am I correct?”

John swallowed the knot in his throat; eager to rid himself of it. He took a deep breath, completely ignored those surrounding him, and merely zeroed in on Sherlock Holmes. “Yes. Yes, you are. Absolutely correct, that is.”

The being smiled. Smiled.

John felt his heart stop in the moment. It was heartbreaking. To see this man, who had been through so much and didn’t even know it yet, smile.

“Precisely. I knew so – for a fact. The details are all right there.”

John arched a brow, and grinned widely, “Then why did you ask me in the first place? If you already knew so well?”

The project shrugged, “Would you like me to be completely honest?”

John narrowed his eyes and scoffed, “Yes, of course.”

Sherlock dropped his eyes, but only for a mere second, “I wanted to impress you.”

John chuckled at that and nodded, “I’d consider myself impressed. Thank you.”

Then they were both grinning, and for once John Watson didn’t feel so alone, and he was sue the man before him didn’t as well.

His eyes met the paper again, eyeing the printed, bold, black letters forming mundane questions.

Suddenly, they didn’t seem so important. 

“Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.”
-Robert Louis Stevenson

Chapter Text

Chapter: Bottom End Power
(Bottom end power Mimimum mainspring power.
Power delivered at the "almost totally unwound state" of a mainsping's power curve.)

John was staring directly into those cold, calculating eyes. Pale blue, flecks of gold, silver and cobalt, and mystifying amounts glaucous. It was like looking into a galaxy, a bursting supernova, and a flaming planet; cold and freezing and burning all at the same time; contrasted heavily by the white skin, so pale it was electrifying.

“John.”

The stern voice has the retired army doctor whirling around in apprehension, eyes wide, realizing he had been doing nothing but staring blankly – failing to ask the questions he was really supposed to be asking. John took in the site of Stapleton – so dull, so boring after having just gazed at the being sitting on the metal slab in front of him. She was stood utterly and eerily still, eyes narrowed suspiciously, hip out to the side, her white coat nearly blinding at first glance.

John shook himself out of his vacant state and then nodded profusely, “Right, right – sorry. Yes, okay.”

Stapleton arched a brow and then indiscreetly flicked her head in the “project’s” direction.

John swallowed, and slowly turned right back around, eyes taking in the man’s position once more. He seemed confused, head tilted in severe caution, as though if John were to make any sudden movements, the figure would flee.

“Sherlock,” John began nervously, blinking twice before readjusting himself in the hard, metal chair and looking down at the file of questions he had originally been given. He yearned just to have his own conversation with the being – not ask these ridiculous questions.
But he shrugged it off; at least he still got to talk with him anyways. “How do you feel this very moment?”

The figure flinched in distrust, eyes seemingly vibrating over the entire laboratory before they landed on John’s subtle smile. “Emotionally or physically?”
The deep baritone replied, and John raised both eyebrows, glancing quickly at Stapleton’s eager stance before continuing.

“Both.”

The project, Sherlock, stiffened but still nodded his understanding. He barely moved an inch upon breaking out into an explanation, eyes winding down over every single presence in the room, occasionally focusing in on Mycroft, glaring at Stapleton and glowering at Frankland.

“Physically? My eyes burn and my arms ache immensely,” He paused before carrying on, twitching noticeably when both Stapleton and Frankland hurried to write down the side effects he was experiencing. John merely listened. “I feel as though my head has been thrown onto a concrete wall over and over again, and my chest is terribly heavy.”

John cringed at the description – his head, having been altered and toyed with, and his chest, bearing an incredibly large amount of various metals. With a glance over his shoulder, John saw that Stapleton and Frankland were nodding vigorously, and continuing with their notes.

“Emotionally?” Sherlock paused and John instantly stilled, “I feel nothing.”

The retired army doctor didn’t expect to witness the scientist, now striding up to his position, smirk at the “project’s” statement.

“Very good, Chezza,” Stapleton began, seemingly confusing Sherlock with the nickname, “This is normal, considering the procedure you went through.”

The figure, still sitting elegantly before John, glared at the woman and narrowed both eyes in discontent, “I was talking to John Watson.”

Stapleton immediately flushed, nodded minutely, and silenced herself upon standing beside where John was sat. Dr. Watson held his breath, forcing back a chuckle, and turned, once more, to gaze fixatedly on the mystifying being.

“Right, Sherlock. So, what is it that you are thinking about at this current moment?” John shifted uncomfortably, and watched the “project” stiffen and clear his throat.

“I am suspicious and confused,” He began, “I want to know why I am here, where I am, what you want from me, and why I can’t remember a single thing from before the moment I first opened my eyes.”

John inhaled deeply, and turned to catch a glimpse of Stapleton’s nervous expression – she didn’t seem too keen on giving him the answers, so John decidedly moved on. “In due time, Mr. Holmes.” John felt horrible saying it; he wanted to tell this man everything that had happened to him, about his memory, and why he was in this laboratory answering John’s ridiculous, but required, questions.

“I see. How very enigmatic.” The man spoke the words sarcastically and shifted as though he was utterly aggravated upon not knowing the true facts behind his current position.

John felt a subtle tap on his shoulder and caught Stapleton’s stern eyes, rushing him forward with the needed questions – once again.
So pushy, John growled to himself. Before John could speak, however, the being had input.

“I have a question now, Dr. Watson. What is this procedure I have been said to have went through?”

John froze, nervously clearing his throat as the man on the metal slab observed him calculatingly. “Well, uh –“

“Mr. Holmes, you do not need to know this information, please do not ask again.” Dr. Stapleton was so very straightforward, so firm and rather harsh, that John was spinning to face her in his seat.

Sherlock Holmes merely eyed the woman in utter disgust, “Oh really?”

Stapleton smirked, and John instantly fell into a whirl of shocked disposition, “Yes, Chezza, really,” The scientist was now smiling rather mockingly at the project, and her eyes flashed in greed as she continued on with her scolding, “You are merely an object in a trial – an object of which I have complete, and utter, power over. So, it will, in fact, do you well to listen to me.”

The man on the metallic surface seemed frozen by hurt disbelief, and John – John was merely angry. Angry at the way this woman was jabbing at the newly revived being, of whom was clueless to what he was and what he was good for. How could her words possibly make him feel now? John wanted to intervene, but it was impossible.

Stapleton had merely continued again. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Holmes, that you are no one at this point in time – nobody. This version of yourself is merely for knowledge – for intellect.”

The project’s head perked at this and his eyes narrowed, his expression showing no form of defeat. “This version?” He paused, “And the other?”

Stapleton merely grinned – a frankly terrifying grin, at that.

The figure in front of John decided to move on, “What if I choose not to embellish you with the knowledge and intellect you require?”

The woman’s smile faded and she cleared her throat in apprehension, “I regret to inform you this will not be a problem for us.”

John stiffened, glanced at Stapleton in anguish and inwardly shook his head – she was a façade; did she care for her own science project at all?

“How so?” Sherlock snapped, his eyes focused on the dreadful woman before him.

Stapleton leaned forward, a smirk lacing her lips as she drew closer and closer to the slender figure sat atop the metal surface, shimmering a hue of blue in the artificial laboratory light. He flinched upon her proximity, shifting his position slightly in order to scoot farther back on the slab.

“I can just turn you off.”

Before John could even react to the brutal comment, and before Sherlock really had the time to fathom it, another voice, deeper, was echoing in the gray laboratory.

“Enough!” Footsteps drew nearer and a hand gripped onto Stapleton’s forearm, lunging her backwards and away from her project. Mycroft was looming just beside John, the woman in his grasp, staring her down with eyes that posed an inevitable threat. “I will not stand for this!”

Stapleton only smiled and shook her head in amusement, placing her own palm on top of Mycroft’s white-knuckled hand. “You have no choice, I’m afraid.” She informed him and the government official drew back in stunned silence, his lips pursing in utter disgust.

John blinked, and swallowed – irritated internally by their tension – then slowly twisted to catch a glimpse of the figure this was really about. He was sat entirely still, eyes drawn to the tiled floor beneath him, skin pale and shimmering in the dew of his blue liquid capsule, hair still damp and wavy, hanging just atop his forehead. As the argument between Stapleton and Mycroft continued, John felt he was falling into a pit of rage.

The man had just woken up – and what had he been woken to witness? Fighting, brawling, ugly words snapped his way about him and what he was – of which he didn’t even know. So, before John even knew what he was doing, he reached forward and placed a warm hand on the small, pale and slender one, which had been resting limp in the being’s lap. The project’s eyes shot open wide and he whirled to face John, an expression of complete and utter surprise falling over his brilliant features.

He didn’t move, didn’t react – didn’t do anything.
But he also didn’t move his hand away.

He needs the comfort, John told himself. Psychical comfort, so that he would know that he was still, at least partially, human; still a free man – even if the fact wasn’t entirely believable. The figure on the metal slab just kept staring, calculating John’s movements, what he was currently doing, as if the man was plagued by disbelief from just having been touched in a gentle, reassuring manner. John tried a smile, but it didn’t have much effect.

Until, the project talked.

“You’re warm.”

John’s head shot up in confusion, and Stapleton finally turned around to witness the exchange had, her face contorting, slightly, into an expression of yearning, and envy. Mycroft was simply bemused, and rather, bewildered by the interaction.

“No, John. You mustn’t.” Stapleton reached over and slapped John’s hand away, leaving the retired army doctor in a strong state of puzzlement. John was rather irritated by Stapleton’s touch, and he quickly drew back his hand, feeling as though he should shake it around a bit, after her brief tap, or wipe it on his clothes. But he didn’t.

“Why not? He looked rather frightened, so I comforted him.” John shrugged.

“We risk a chance of over-heating, Dr. Watson. And besides,” Stapleton scoffed disbelievingly, “He doesn’t need comfort,” She leaned closer to the appalled man, now whispering in his ear so that the being conversed about wouldn’t hear. “He’s part machine, he has no memories of reassurance or sympathy, and he doesn’t have a proper heart – he doesn’t feel things that way.”

John was mortified – mortified that the woman before him, who he worked for of all people, could talk that way about a human being – well, partial human being. He was still a ‘somebody’ and somebody, no matter what they are made of or look like, always needs a little comfort and offered love.

“Perhaps you could lay off the arguing then – so next time I won’t have a reason to comfort him.” John said the words before he could hold his tongue, and for a moment, he was utterly terrified that the scientist would use him as her next lab rat or something. But she didn’t seem to notice.

She merely smiled, chuckled slightly to herself, and tapped the small sheet in front of John; her finger nails clicking against the metal of the clipboard.

“Shall we continue the questions then?”

 *

The questions never did continue. Sherlock Holmes didn’t answer any more.

John asked, John pleaded, really, that he somehow respond, but the being wouldn’t have it. He simply gazed blankly at the floor, hands folded in his lap, and his mind elsewhere. Occasionally he glanced up, took in the sight of Stapleton or Mycroft, and then gazed longingly John’s way, but after the little quarrel, he didn’t speak again. And it stayed that way, silent and unsuccessful, until Stapleton let out a long, frustrated sigh, shaking her head and jumping to her feet.

“Turn him off, Bob.” She commanded, sending Frankland in a quick motion of pressing buttons and jabbing the console to the machine capsule. Stapleton merely kept walking, never once looking back at the being, Mycroft, or John – simply heading out the laboratory doors with a steady, elongated stride. And then the project’s brother had let out a sharp huff, narrowed his eyes at John, sent him a quick – perhaps grateful – nod and left as well, following Stapleton’s long-gone presence. John gulped, watched the doors close in finality, glanced at Frankland still pressing buttons, and then turned to the figure on the metal slab.

“I’m sorry,” He found himself saying, much to his own surprise. He observed as the project lifted his head confidently, and gazed thoroughly into his cobalt eyes.

The man, Sherlock Holmes, seemed confused, perplexed with the fact that John was attempting to comfort him yet again. John cleared his throat, listening as the zap of electric charge flickered to life beneath the surface of the metal Sherlock sat firmly atop. The being smiled wearily, and nodded, catching the retired army doctor a bit off guard. His eyes then fluttered slightly, and his beam wavered, before he ultimately began falling slowly backwards.

“Hold his head, John. We don’t need a concussion.” Frankland’s voice was horrid and high-pitched compared to that of the figure before him, but John listened, carefully moving forward to place his palm beneath the layers of silky, dark brown curls. On his way down, the project merely forced open his eyes to watch John calculatingly, brow furrowed slightly in suspicion. John set the man flat along the top of the metallic, shimmering surface, and that’s when the being turned to him, a look of peace and admiration in the depths of his glaucous eyes.

“I wish we had met in another life, Dr. Watson.”

The words mesmerized John, but before he could respond, the project had doomed himself to another inevitable, operated slumber.

Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.

Corrie Ten Boom

 “Memories, John.” Stapleton snapped the next morning.

John was dead tired, feeling gloomy from the lack of adrenaline. He honestly wanted to free himself from the clutches of this woman, but feared he was already in too deep. So he would stay – he would stay for Sherlock Holmes, the tormented man who was said to be nothing but a machine.

But now, as Stapleton spoke, it merely came out as words of pure torture, every syllable, every noun, every adjective sounding dull and worthless – perfectly putrid, in John’s mind. He despised this woman – he had seen her true self: a monster hidden away in the white coat of a simple scientist.
With every sentence, John was merely convinced she spoke unfathomable lies.

“Sorry, what?” He replied, throwing a hand up to clutch the bridge of his nose.

Stapleton raised an eyebrow in suspicion, placing ne hand on her hip as she awaited his more accurate response.

“You alright?” She asked him genuinely. As if you care, he thought to himself.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Sorry, what were you saying?” He blinked rapidly to clear his mind from the lack of sleep, and turned his full attention on the woman before him. She was, of course, his boss – he had to still stay tentative.

“I mentioned memories,” She began, beckoning John over to the sleeping body of an impossible man, still appearing peaceful in the water’s bright, blue light. John was still utterly bewildered by his forthcoming – the fact that he had actually been revived. “It is defined as the faculty by which the mind stores and remembers information,” John arched a brow as she turned to him, smirking widely, “And today, we are going to induce Chezza’s.”

John was awake.
John was more than awake.
But he was also speechless.

“Frankland,” Dr. Stapleton called out to the man across the lab, and he strode forward, a small chip in hand, which he then handed to the scientist in charge, grinning proudly. Stapleton whirled to face John once more, chip in the air as though it was some brilliant achievement, some sort of trophy she had earned in a scuffle. “Such a beauty, isn’t it?” John narrowed his eyes as the little black chip, rectangular and densely compacted. Scribbled atop its front were the initials, “SH”.

“Sure, yeah.” John replied awkwardly, nodding his head to the statement and Stapleton’s beaming expression.

“Frankland!” She ordered again, and the same man came running – grasping the memory chip – then jogged over to the computer connecting the project to the machine capsule. Buttons flickered in magnificent hues as he plugged the chip into its hard drive, and John merely observed (as always), observing Frankland with keen interest and some sort of defined hatred.

What would he be like?

Sherlock Holmes would be Sherlock Holmes – the Sherlock Holmes he was before he died.

Somehow, John felt as though this was going to take a horrid turn. In one quick movement, the system was started up and the volts in the liquid capsule were shut off. The metal slab was raised, the figure along with it – once again shimmering like gloss in the artificial lighting.

John watched as the eyes twitched and readied themselves to open.
John watched as the nose flinched in curiosity upon smelling new smells.
As a finger lifted gently off the metallic surface.
As the wavy hair swayed in contentment.

And then he watched as the entire system went to hell.

Work is a necessity for man. Man invented the alarm clock.

Pablo Picasso