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I’ve begun keeping a journal.
I suppose this is the start of it. Hello, journal. Is that how you begin?
My model never published his very first journal - his private, personal one. So I don't really know how to start. My apologies.
(Perhaps it is strange, to apologise to a journal. But we are both objects, are we not? So we are both the same.)
I do not need to keep one, of course. Everything I am programmed to do and need to say is stored safely within my memory banks. But Inspector Lestrade told me that it would be good if I were to try, to make Holmes feel more comfortable and at home; and if Lestrade asks me to do something, I will try my very best to do it.
Is it working, Holmes? Are you more comfortable?
You are sitting in a chair near the window, looking out onto the city, and you are fiddling with your hands in a way that makes me imagine you miss your pipe. Not an accommodation anyone was willing to make for you in this day and age. I can tell it upsets you.
Or maybe it is just New London that upsets you.
Oh, but you’ve caught me staring, and now I am positive I have not made you comfortable at all.
I freeze, but your gaze softens when you see what I’m doing, and you turn back to the window, as if not to bother me. Continue your stargazing, though in the city there are no stars.
So I am attempting to return to my writing, now, so that I might stop my gazing at you.
Hm. What to write?
I suppose my model always wrote of your cases, but I am not sure I can do his writing justice. They would come out as poor copies of his work - stilted simulacra by a hand that is not truly his own. I will endeavour to do a better chronicle of them in time, however. My memory does not falter, and so there is no rush.
I think I shall write about your music.
The syntholin Inspector Lestrade gave you sits where your Stradivarius once sat, before long-ago looters took it away; and though your skill with it is halting, and uncertain, and the sound it makes is tinny, rather than rich, you have embraced the instrument with all your heart.
(I did not think Lestrade liked you, really, though I often wonder if there is anyone she likes; so I must say that such a kind gift surprised me as much as it did you.
I wonder if it is because she is sorry.)
So you have dedicated yourself to practising it, day after day, as you have with your studies of the modern world. When there aren’t the sounds of videos playing, there is the tap-tap-tapping of your long fingers on buttons as you search the worldwide database for as much information as you can find - on history, on chemistry, on crime.
You asked once if I minded the noise, but I did not. Because it was you making it.
…A strange thought, for a mindless machine. But a very normal thought, I suppose, for your Watson.
The one you believe that I am.
You gave me a bedroom in the flat, and insisted it was mine - had always been mine, when you still lived in London so long ago. Even though I own nothing, and do not sleep. You insisted.
So after a brief and friendly exchange of “good nights”, I have slipped out of our living area - leaving you alone with the window and the night sky - and I am writing this while lying down on my back, and wondering what sleep might be like for humans. What sleep might have been like for the man I am supposed to be.
My model once wrote that when he was very tired, you played him to sleep with your violin.
It would not be enough to make me do so. Not unless you turned me off manually. But I would be willing to pretend, if it made you happy.
I think it would make me “happy” too, if such a thing can be felt by such a thing as myself. I am not sure if it can.
But I would like to try.
The museum that bears your name has decided you need its contents more than the people of New London, so they have returned them to you. Whether New Scotland Yard twisted their arm, or whether it was out of genuine kindness, I do not know.
There is not much. When the memorial fell to disuse, security ran lax, and some objects were stolen; others still are in poor shape. But there are clothes, and books, and letters, and I have helped you arrange them all. It feels something like a home, now - or, at least, you said it did.
There is a photograph, too. Just one.
It is dated from the 1930s, shortly before the Second World War, and long before the Third; and it shows a man who looks like you, and a man who looks like me. Both are much older, greyer, skin sagging with time; but there is undeniable contentment in their eyes, and their gnarled and callused hands rest gently on each other’s shoulders.
You must have been happy with my model, I think, when I look at it.
I have never seen you look so happy.
“Reminiscing on old times, are you, Watson?”
A gentle touch on my back, and there you were beside me.
“I, too, find myself very prone to that these days.”
It caused me to start, for I didn’t realise you were there. Perhaps my proximity sensor is malfunctioning.
“Ah, forgive me for removing you from your thoughts,” you said, expression apologetic, and hesitantly pulled your hand away.
“No, no.” I shook my head. “It’s quite all right, Holmes.”
Your eyes softened with palpable relief, and you touched my back once more; and I am very happy you did so.
“It was terribly warm that day. Unseasonably so. I feared my sweat would show through my clothing. But old Garrison had insisted on taking a complimentary photograph for the anniversary of our arrival in Sussex, and his skill is of course without compare. Brighton Beach made a lovely background for it, in the end.”
You spoke with a casual air of familiarity, as if repeating a point we both already knew.
I stared at you in confusion. “Brighton Beach?”
It was a name I was aware of, but only as a historical footnote - a place of respite by vacationers during the summer months, before the earth had grown warmer, and the sea had risen to swallow the sand. There had not been a beach there in thirty years.
“Surely you jest.” The good humour on your face faltered, a crack in your cheerful demeanour. “We took our strolls there every weekend, if the weather permitted it. Like clockwork, you and I. You can’t possibly have forgotten.”
It was very true. I had not forgotten. I had simply never known.
“I, well…”
“We went for dinner afterward, to your favourite restaurant, since we’d gone to my favourite the year before. And there was a young woman selling flowers on the corner, and you insisted they would look lovely in our garden, and while I was certainly more skilled at horticulture than before, you helped guide me a great deal in planting them, and…”
There was such a lovely light in your eyes, as you told me memories I lacked; and I watched it flicker and die when you saw I didn’t share them.
“…You don’t remember any of it?”
What could I say?
If I said yes, it would be a lie. My model never published anything after his retirement. His writing is how I know him - how I know myself. I know nothing more.
But if I said no, it would break you.
So I took your trembling hands in my own, and I said, “…Why don’t you remind me?”
You were silent, for the briefest of moments, and I thought you had not believed my bluff. It was poor, anyhow, and you are so very perceptive. But your lips turned up slightly, and I was glad to see it.
“My dear Watson, I hardly expected you of all people to fall prey to senility! But very well. Sit, and I’ll make us some tea.”
You went off into the kitchen, forgetting that I cannot drink it; and sit I did, patiently on the settee. Soon after, you returned with a pot and two cups - hybridised porcelain, of course, not the real thing - and rejoined me at my side. Close - so close.
“Perhaps a few stories will jog your memory,” you said with a smile, sliding your arm around my shoulders. “But where to start… Ah, yes! The day I introduced you to the bees!”
(There are no bees left, anymore, so I had never been able to meet one.)
I do not know how long you talked from then on. My internal clock must have forgotten to record it. All I remember is the sound of your voice, as your words were stored in my memory - your expressions, your laugh, the rapid movements of your hands.
And your warmth, as you held me. I remember that, too.
…Humans are so warm.
I do not always want to return to the Yard.
It has been my duty for so long, and it is what I was made to do. My existence is dedicated to Lestrade, and I have been programmed to serve her since she was a little girl, in any and every endeavour she wishes. I have not always done so perfectly - in fact, I have often miscalculated, and made mistakes.
…She reminds me of this frequently. I hope she knows that I am doing my very best.
But my time living with you has reminded me that it was different, once - when she was young, and still full of dreams. There was a time when she used to be happy to see me - when she read my model’s stories to me, even though I didn’t require it to learn, and we played at solving mysteries together; a time when she hugged me tightly with her small arms, and said I was her “best friend in the world”.
(Miss Beth was a lonely child, so that was not a high compliment. I believe I was all that she had.
She does not allow me to call her Miss Beth anymore.)
I had not forgotten that I was once treated like more than an object. I had just found it easier not to remember. After all, that was merely the naïveté of childhood, and Lestrade had long since grown out of it. She has seen the world for the difficult place that it is, and she has seen me for the simple compudroid that I am.
For in the real world, a compudroid cannot be a best friend.
Perhaps that is why I so prefer Baker Street. Because you do not see the real world, Holmes; and so I am your best friend.
But I returned to the Yard nonetheless, because it is my duty to look after Lestrade. And Lestrade has been in increasing need of looking after.
“Hello, Inspector,” I said while opening the door. “Are you quite all right?”
Her office was well-lit, and clean enough, but messier than usual. The business with Moriarty has troubled her greatly, and it would appear from the pillow and the wrinkled bedroll on the floor that she had been staying here for many nights, rather than going home. She sat at her desk before her holoscreen, which hovered much closer to her eyes than recommended by government health specialists - eyes that, incidentally, were surrounded by even darker circles and heavier bags than normal.
(There was such sadness in them, I remember. I have never liked to see her sad.)
“…What the hell are you doing here, Watson?”
A common enough greeting. But today, it didn’t seem as if her heart was in it.
“I am here to manage your health. After all, sometimes you fail to do so yourself.”
From a brief scan of her vitals, it was clear that this was one such situation. She had not eaten for some time - it appeared the only thing in her system was liquid, but it did not appear to be water - nor had she slept. Of course, I cannot force Lestrade to do such things, but it is still my duty to encourage her.
“Convinced you’re a real doctor, now, too, huh?” She rubbed her temples. “...Maybe you really are delusional.”
Delusional. Hm.
Perhaps she was right.
Even so, I reached into my chest compartment, and withdrew a selection of small plastic bags.
“If you are amenable to eating something, Inspector, I have brought you a variety of healthy snacks. Freeze-dried apples, cranberry trail mix, plant-based jerky…”
“…You don’t even react when I insult you.”
Her response was quiet. Troubled.
“Would it kill you, to stand up for yourself? Even once?”
She seemed angry, but I am not sure it was me she was angry at.
“…God knows I’ve treated you like shit.”
Lestrade stared into the glass she was drinking from, filled with what I could clearly identify as some sort of illegal intoxicant. Then she looked up at me with an unhappy smile.
“Tell me, Watson,” she said to me, mimicking a posh English accent, “can you figure out this little mystery I’ve got?”
I nodded. “Of course, Inspector. What is it?”
“Why,” she said, shakily dropping her glass on the table, “did it take me twenty-eight years?”
I tilted my head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question - ”
“Why did it take me this long to realise I’m not a good person?”
She wasn’t looking at me anymore. I do not know where she was looking; for I tried to follow her gaze, but there was nothing of interest she could be staring at.
I shook my head. “No, Inspector. I do not believe you are a bad - ”
“Because you’re programmed to say that.” Her grip on her glass had tightened, and I became worried that she would break it. “Because you’ve convinced yourself that it doesn’t matter what sort of person I am - because I’ve convinced you all that matters is that you do what I say.”
…I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“You’re so nice to me and - and I can’t stand it. I’ve never done a damn thing that didn’t just make people miserable, that didn’t just play into the Yard’s hands, and - and you’re nice to me.”
I had rarely heard the inspector speak with such a tremble in her voice.
“I mean, God, Watson, I brought a man back from the dead because I couldn’t do my job. And now he’s stuck in the same nightmare as the rest of us. Convinced himself that a robot in a mask is his dead partner, so he doesn’t lose his mind. And we all let him - helped him believe it - because it was easier than telling him the Yard must not have thought his best friend’s corpse mattered enough to save.”
A bitter laugh. “What a great detective I’ve turned out to be.”
When she turned her eyes my way, they were bright with tears.
“…Why don’t you ever get out of here, Watson? You don’t have to stay with me.”
For a moment, I thought she was telling me to leave only for the night, before I realised the true meaning of her words.
Running away? From the Yard, and from servitude - from her, and from you?
…I do not think I am capable of such a thing. I had not even considered it.
And I could never forgive myself if I left those near to me behind.
“I have nowhere else to go, Inspector. And besides, if I were to leave, I fear you would hurt yourself. And I do not want that.”
“You ever thought,” she murmured as she stared into her drink, “that maybe you should want that?”
“I have.”
It was true.
“But I still do not.”
Lestrade said nothing more for a long while, and tentatively, I sat down beside her. I believe she wanted company, even if I wasn’t certain she wanted mine.
“I miss it,” she said finally. “Being friends with you.”
“As do I, Inspector Lestrade,” was my only reply. “As do I.”
I told you all this the next afternoon, when I returned and you asked where I’d been. That I had stayed the night at the Yard with her, until she had fallen asleep; that we had looked over a case file together, and that when I made a mistake - stumbled into a false observation, or asked a foolish question - she had not been so harsh in correcting me.
That once, when she had grown upset, she’d stopped herself, and she’d said she was… sorry.
“I am glad that she finally understands,” you said with a smile, “just how very valuable you are.”
The matter we had looked over - a rather perplexing burglary - required more investigation, but I had insisted she get some more rest, and a reasonable bite to eat; and with a few grumbles, she had complied.
Thus, today the investigation was the pair of us alone. A rare thing indeed, to be allowed to visit the scene without oversight. The weather was good, so we walked there together, as you have still not gained any great affinity for hovercars.
It’s nice, being with you like this.
“Do you remember our first case?” you asked me, the sun bright upon your narrow face.
“Of course I do, Holmes,” I answered, watching you.
I do. Vividly. As much as I can remember anything, at least. But I focus on some parts more than others.
The case details are a statistic with curious notes - the expression of horror upon the victim, the splatter of blood upon the wall. But I recall other things, more important things - how you turned pink at my compliments, and I was charmed by your unexpected shyness, or how you sat with me in the carriage, chattering and singing like a songbird, and it became my new favourite sound.
…No, no. My model. Not me. I’ve forgotten again.
Perhaps someday, I’ll forget for good.
…Perhaps I want to.
“It was on a day just like this one! Blissfully free of rain, or I’d have never gotten the footprints! Or the carriage tracks, for that matter…”
You linked your arm in mine as we talked - human and machine, preserved century-old fabric against cool metal warming in the sun - and the gesture caused me to slip once more, into a world where my arm had always been made of skin and muscle and blood, and you held it like an old and timeless friend.
Sometimes you’d cut yourself off mid-conversation, to see if I was listening, afraid that I was bored. But I have never tired of you since I met you - not as a machine, and not as a man. So I only hope I responded enough to satisfy you - to be something static, something to anchor you, even as we walked around the city you scarcely recognised anymore.
…My model never once wrote of “love”. Not for you, anyway. I am aware it was illegal to write such a thing when he was alive; and though I have been programmed with a great deal of history on Scotland Yard, I cannot understand why that law was ever thought to be useful.
So it was ambiguous. It was not spelled out in easy words. But I believe I have come to understand it as such - as “love” - nonetheless.
It is in the way he talked about you - the way he wrote down your every word, even when you thought he was not listening. It is in how he liked the way you looked - your hands, your nose, your eyes. It is in how you made up when you fought, and how he forgave you for his frustrations, when others would not - how he understood you, and tried to understand you, when others refused.
It is in how he wished to spend his life by your side, and never did anything less.
My model loved you with all of his heart. But I… don’t have one.
…How is it, then, that I am starting to feel the same?
The revelation so distracted me that I hardly realised we’d reached our destination; and though I retained each and every data point of our subsequent investigation, the conscious part of my mind had a great deal of trouble focusing on anything other than you.
I was broken, surely. It could not be convenient for a machine to malfunction so. But if you perceived the reason for my systemic failures, you hardly reprimanded me for them, or even seemed surprised.
I supposed it made sense enough, that you would be used to such fondness in my model’s eyes; and I grew more useless still when I saw how deeply you returned it.
Know that I noticed your small gestures, subtle and accustomed to secrecy as they were, though I was too overwhelmed to frankly express my awareness. Every fond look, every gentle brush of a hand against my shoulder, or the joint of my elbow or knee; every conversation where you leaned into me, or against me, like a man starved for touch.
Forgive me, for responding to it, looking and leaning back; for I pretended that it was all for your comfort and benefit, when really some of it, too, was for my own.
We ordered dinner on our journey back - for, in the absence of a landlady fond of meal-making, you have gained a great affinity for delivery pizza - and sat on the settee together for the meal I could not eat; and you typed and researched with one hand with a slice of it in the other, musing aloud on the day’s findings as you did. I did my best to help you talk things out (and remind you that pepperoni grease did not mix well with computer keys), but though I am not certain I was any help, you insisted that our conversation had shed quite a bit of light on the identity of the thief - and that even if it had not, my company would always be help enough.
Your voice was so tender, and your gaze was so fond, and you ran your fingers through my synthetic hair; and I abruptly rose to refill your cup, for I was afraid of what I might want if I stayed a moment longer.
(The action made you look quite put out, enough to bring me sorrow; but I think it is for the best, that we do not wish for the impossible.)
It does not take long to make tea anymore - in fact, it is quite instant. This fact alarms you greatly, and upon your first consumption of it, you lamented that it did not taste the same as it did in the past, though of course I can make no judgements on flavour. And while you have insisted no greater care is necessary, I have taken to making it manually; for though it takes a bit more time, the satisfaction I get from your enjoyment of it is immeasurable.
But a bout of lethargy had already begun to take you when I went off to the kitchen; and by the time I returned with the tea, you had fallen fast asleep. So I lifted you, carefully, in my arms, and brought you to your room.
(It was no difficult feat to do so. My body has a great capacity for strength, and you are as slender as you’ve always been.
I must have carried you to bed before, I think. Even when I was weaker than this.)
There are not so many decorations and knicknacks as when I - as when my model lived with you so long ago. Fewer resources means fewer physical things, so all your files are intangible, and the numerous mugshots that once adorned your walls are conspicuously missing; and though they were hardly a homey thing, without them the walls seem strangely bare. But it is still familiar to me as well as to you - the colours, the carpet, the fireplace that is no longer used.
I set you down gently on your bed, and spread a blanket over your long, curled-up form, only to feel a hand upon my wrist as I turned to leave.
It startled me quite a lot, I must say, for I had been so certain you were asleep, but perhaps I was too indelicate, and had jostled you. Regardless, I turned back, to see that your eyes were open, and though you were weary, you were more than lucid.
“…Will you stay, Watson?”
Your voice was soft, and I could not glean your meaning from your expression.
“Stay for what, Holmes?”
Your eyes just… watched me, longingly, and I began to understand what lay in them; and as you parted your lips to speak, it seemed as if you meant to ask something of me that I was unable to give.
But you stopped yourself, and looked away, though your pleading gaze remained.
“…Just stay. If you wish.”
I did.
Were it in my power, I would give you all the intimacy you could ever want. But I am not built for it.
It is, however, in my power to be beside you - to be something you can rest upon, and hold while you sleep. So I joined you, and you wrapped your arms around me, and I returned the embrace; and you didn’t complain of the discomfort you must have felt to hold metal instead of flesh, even when I asked. Instead, you fell soundly asleep against my chest, your breathing deep and slow; and I gently placed my hand upon your head, and stroked your hair until it was free of the day’s tangles.
It was the most peaceful I have ever seen you look, Holmes.
…It is the most peaceful I have ever felt.
You were gone when I woke up, and that is how I knew something was wrong. For I should not have been able to wake when I cannot sleep.
A quick access of my memory told me that I was powered down unexpectedly - undoubtedly by you. I do not know for how long. But before those numbers, those images, could resurface in my mind, I noticed the window was open, and the night air was blowing in.
The balcony is short, scarcely enough to stand on for a view, but a long shadow was cast upon it, and I realised it was you.
You, with your hands upon the low railing.
You, leaning over it, looking so far down.
“Holmes!”
You started at the sound of my voice, and I was certain then by your surprise that you’d been the one to shut me down. But you recovered, or pretended to, as an actor in a play.
“Good evening, Watson!” you answered, looking over your shoulder at me with a transparent smile. “I was merely contemplating potential escape routes should a criminal ever accost us within our own home. Quite fascinating work these future architects have done, raising the foundation of our old flat so high! I cannot fathom how they did it.”
But your voice rang hollow, and it was obvious that your reasoning was a lie. I could calculate that much - deduce, in a sense, as you do, though I could never measure up.
“You cannot jump from that balcony even if you wish to,” was my instant reply - pure programming, or instinct, placing artificial calm in my words. “The harm prevention field would catch you before you fell.”
There were a number of deaths after the regime change, I’m aware. In my memory banks, they were caused by falling; but it was Lestrade who told me that people had jumped. So the fields were installed, and the world was made better.
“…It was easy enough to disable it. I would not be the first.”
Had I a heart, it would have stopped at those words. As it was, I ran toward you, and grabbed you by the arm to pull you away from the edge.
You did not resist me. But I could not ask you why, because my voice chip would not form any sound.
(I could not put a finger on the reason for my malfunction, then.
I know now that it was from fear.)
But the reason for your easy compliance was soon made clear by your words.
“...You will not be able to stop me forever, my dear. My stubbornness is an insurmountable thing. Who’s to say that the moment you bring me back inside, I won’t simply wake in the middle of the night again, and switch you off once more?”
“Then I will be forced to restrain you.”
“Why, I’ve never met a restraint I couldn’t slip out of!”
“Then I - ”
- would have to take more drastic measures, said the script within my brain. The line of code telling me to sedate you, to deliver you to a hospital, where you would surely be too much for them to handle.
Where they would surely resort to decriminalising you, for the crime of wishing to die.
My voice chip failed me once more, and it was not until I noticed your stare that I realised I was shaking. Alarm bloomed in your gaze, and was swiftly overtaken by a guilt so miserable that I could not bear it.
“Forgive me, I… I know you’re only trying to be kind.”
A hang of your head. It made your hair fall out of place, in a way that looked rather soft.
“…You’ve only ever been trying to be kind.”
You smiled bitterly, sadly, then. It has always been difficult for me to pinpoint human emotions in others, but I have gotten very good at understanding yours.
“…How very like you, Watson.”
I do not know if you meant me, or the man I’ve spent my existence imitating.
…I do not think you know, either.
So silently, I guided you back inside, away from danger, and sat you down on the settee.
(I do not know if Baker Street gives you comfort, with how gravely your old home has changed. But I hope it offers some.)
“I still remember it,” you said after a spell, in an empty voice. “The day I died.”
…For once, there is a memory I am glad only my model has.
“You were holding my hand, and there were tears in your eyes; and with what little strength I had remaining, I wiped them away. Because there was no reason for your grief, my dear. I had lived so happily for so long, and it was all thanks to you. And I knew that, old as you were, you would follow me soon enough; so I told you to live well the years you had ahead of you, before we’d be together once more.”
A smile weakly crossed your lips, and your eyes were clouded, distant with memory.
“I could keep my eyes open no longer, and I felt you kiss me, gently, on my brow…”
You trailed off, and your gaze saddened.
“…and then I woke up in a hospital room, thirty-four once more and two centuries hence, and you weren’t there with me.”
I recalled my two memories of losing you - the time my model thought you dead, and the time I thought the same. Even after three years, my model could not move past your loss, and even one day without you in my life felt as if I were being crushed into nothing at all.
Yet even I cannot imagine living all your life with your other half, and then being forced to live once more without them. Accompanied only by a poor photocopy - a metal-bodied ghost.
“It’s all a nightmare, I imagine. I did not die when I expected to, and am trapped in a long and painful sleep; and when I wake from this dream, it shall be beside you, in a world where you are flesh and blood and have age spots on your knuckles.”
Your speech began to speed up, growing frantic, as if you were trying to convince yourself of its truth.
“I’ll tell you all about it, and you’ll laugh in a manner that embarrasses me, and then we’ll take tea and breakfast, with bread dipped in honey from my hives, and you’ll read the paper as I listen to the radio, and - ”
Your voice cracked, then, raw and thick.
“ - and all will be well again.”
…How long you have suffered, Holmes. How little I can do to help.
Forgive me for my powerlessness, my dear.
Forgive me.
We were silent again for a while, close, yet eternally distant, before you asked a quiet question.
“Watson, if… if you truly aren’t the man I know, then may I prove it?”
…In truth, I did not understand. Everything about me seemed proof enough - my missing memories, my metallic body, my imperfect voice. There was already so much you had chosen not to see.
But I nodded, and answered, “Whatever proof you need.”
You were silent, at that, and I could tell that you were gathering your courage.
“Then I… shall do what I have wished to do since the day we began living together again.”
And you put one hand on my shoulder, and the other against my cheek, and you kissed me.
…Only briefly, though. For you recoiled in an instant.
I understood, then, what last remaining barrier you had raised against reality. Because that barrier was my face.
The mask is of a quality unheard of in your era - a realism, a freedom of expression and movement, that was unimaginable only until very recent years. It appears as skin and hair, as eyes and ears, as pores and muscle and bone; but it is all silicon and projection, all electrical currents and facial mapping and internal holograms. There is no heat, or sweat, or proper give - just a cold, clammy, rubbery facade, unpalatable to fingers and worse beneath lips.
You had never asked to kiss me, because you knew there was nothing there to kiss.
…Something ended, then, I think. Inside myself. For your last barrier against reality was mine as well.
Wounded as you are, there has always been a place in your heart that seeks the unflinching truth. My model helped you chase after it, when you struggled; and I hope that, in some small way, so have I.
Perhaps it is finally time for the both of us to admit it.
“…It’s all right, Holmes.”
I put my hand on your back, cold as it must be to the touch, because I cannot think of another way to comfort you.
“I know I can never be completely real.”
You were quiet, for a moment. So very quiet.
Then you grew upset, and I could not understand why. Why you pulled away, and sounded angry.
“…No. That’s not it. That isn’t fair.”
You looked into my face, then, with the blue eyes I’ve come to know as beautiful.
“Just because you aren’t my Watson doesn’t mean you aren’t real at all.”
…Real?
How can I be real?
How can I be anything more than a facsimile of a human being, a replica of a beloved man?
How can I be anything more than I am?
“You feel, do you not? More than just imitation,” you continued, as if sensing my confusion. “You think, do you not? More than the simple calculations of a mindless machine. What is being real, if not that?”
…I didn’t know. I still don’t. I don’t know what I feel, or think. Perhaps I never will.
But you said so with such confidence, such objectivity, that I wanted it to be true.
…Even now, I hope that it is true.
“Thank you, Holmes,” I said softly, and hoped you understood how deeply I meant it.
“Mm,” you replied, and made a poor attempt to swallow your pain. “However, if you aren’t really him, then that means there must be something else you don’t remember.”
I couldn’t imagine how many things there were that I couldn’t remember. Countless things, I was sure.
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
You smiled at me, a bit feebly. “You must not remember how to dance.”
“Dance…?” I tilted my head at you in confusion. “Why, I can’t imagine I’d be capable of such a thing.”
“Nonsense.” You patted my shoulder with a metallic clang. “Your database surely contains the necessary steps.”
An open hand, in front of mine - familiar and not. One I’d scarcely known a few months, but felt I’d known a hundred years.
“And as for the rest, my dear boy,” you continued with an encouraging gaze, “it’s elementary.”
I took your hand tentatively, broad, silver steel dwarfing pale and slender fingers; and with a command word from you to the speakers, a gentle waltz began to play in the sitting room.
Dancing was not an ability deemed necessary for a machine to possess, so while I had of course been programmed with a rudimentary sense of rhythm, I had no real skill at following it. But you guided me, Holmes, and forgave my metallic clumsiness; and you chuckled fondly at my failures, and grinned in delight at my eventual success.
It was… fun, dancing with you. My partner, my companion, the man I and my model loved. Still love, in my case, though there is little I can do about it.
Perhaps I cannot be your Watson; but I can be your friend, and you can be mine, and that can be enough.
Today is another day.
I still do not need to write in this journal. Not even to comfort you, Holmes, for you have at last accepted the truth. But I have found that in a way, it comforts me, even though it serves no purpose; so perhaps I shall continue to do it.
I do not know where the future may take us. Myself, yourself, Lestrade. We are all tools of this world, in a way. Human and machine.
But the sun rises over the city, and there are new villains to chase, and cases to crack; and we will live, somehow.
We will live.