A/N: Because rainbowsaola made a post on Tumblr saying,

"I just woke up from a Sherlock dream where Sherlock was actually a robot. His creator saw Sherlock as his son, kind of like Data and Lore's creator from Star Trek. In the dream I was in his house drinking tea with him and talking about Sherlock and John. He obviously loved Sherlock very much. He was also a huge Johnlock shipper and insisted that the two of them were perfect together. I also got the feeling that he was just a little bit insane. There were a bunch of other simpler, smaller robots floating around the house doing various jobs like cleaning and refilling our tea. They looked alot like the robots Mitch from Phineas and Ferb had in 'Meapless in Seattle'. Sherlock was in the background yelling at a few of them and John was trying to get him to shut up. The dream ended as I wondered if John knew and how would this affect their relationship?"

And suddenly I just had to write something like it. Although I will refrain from using any 'I, Robot' or 'Terminator' references, I swear, as much as it will pain me to resist. XD

01. Explanation.

"She's dying, you machine –" and he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Sod this. Sod this."

Sherlock's eyes linger as John exits the room.

Little does he know how correct he is.

-0-

Sherlock rarely sleeps. He hardly eats. When he does either, it's sleep-mode to rest his harddrive (he wasn't using a metaphor about deleting files from it; that is the blunt truth), and the food is emptied later, because it has no meaning for his body; he only eats to appease John.

Mycroft is also an android. Their father made two. Mycroft is the older, more analytical version. He is precise and efficient and doesn't much care for humans. He was programmed that way. Their father is a lonely widower; he wanted sons. So he crafted them himself.

Perfect, down to the last detail. They look human. They feel mostly human; their false skin is of the highest caliber, and their machinery keeps them feeling warm to the touch, their metal bones makes them feel solid, but not too heavy.

But Sherlock, unlike his brother, is programmed with "H.E.A.R.T."

Human

Emotion

Artificially

Recreated

Technology.

Speaking literally, when he told Moriarty – a human, one of the rare sort who is as intelligent as Sherlock and Mycroft, but unable to handle it, and therefore insane – that he didn't have a heart, and was reliably informed of such, he was speaking the truth. He does not need a pumping organ of flesh to make his circuits run. He has an ionic core, something bright and ice-hot to the touch that resides in his chest plate. But not a heart.

He has H.E.A.R.T., of course, but that is different. They are fake emotions. They are designed, not naturally fabricated. They mimic the chemicals humans naturally possess. So Sherlock often disregards them, his own and the feelings of others. Those become the times, he's noted in pattern, when John says he has done something not good.

But that doesn't mean Sherlock is devoid of them. He still "feels" them. And when John walks out of the hospital and Sherlock is prepared to meet his doom, he "feels" something. Humans might call it "regret/remorse," or "sorrow," or perhaps even "guilt."

Sherlock doesn't like this emotion. He wishes to eradicate it. But only his creator can do that.

-0-

Being robotic, it is simple to fall from stories up and survive. He merely shuts off his blinking function and already bears no pulse, and asks Molly for a few pints of donated blood to pour into the street below.

Faking his death is easy. Because, in theory, robots can't die.

-0-

"You were… the best man; uh, the most human… human being that I have ever known, and no one can convince me that you told me a lie. So, there."

Sherlock watches John speak to his empty grave. He is meters and meters away, but it is heard perfectly with an extension of his microphone function. He picks up the carry of John's voice as clearly as though John were standing directly beside him.

He smiles at the irony of that statement. He isn't a human being at all; but now, he wonders, if he isn't a bit human anyhow, due to H.E.A.R.T., and John, and how much he wishes he didn't have to put the doctor through this.

-0-

When Sherlock returns, John is shock still for a long time. Sherlock wonders what's wrong with him. He is surprised, and relieved, and terrified, that much is clear, but why isn't he breathing? Why is he swooning?

Sherlock catches John in his arms and registers that the man has fallen unconscious. He takes him, lies him down gently onto the floor, and touches his brow. He can't feel what John's skin is like. He can see the sheen on sweat at his hairline, can see the wrinkles in his forehead, but cannot feel any of it. He wishes he had sensors that could do so. He will have to ask Father about crafting some. It would be nice, to be able to touch and download sensory information.

When the doctor wakes, he moves to jump Sherlock, tackle him, strangle him, all while weeping. The shock has worn off; it's pure adrenaline now. Sherlock smiles and eases John's fingers from his throat. He sits up and John removes himself from Sherlock's legs. He wipes his tears, and Sherlock watches. Waits.

Then: "How are you alive? I saw you fall. I saw the blood, felt your pulse –"

"I think it's time you met my father," Sherlock remarks. It's the only answer he can give that covers all the bases. If he's explained to John, explained to be an android, then perhaps John will get some honest answers about how he survived the suicide cover, and why it had to be this way.

-0-

Sherlock's creator is a bit mad. He knows that. No sane man would build fake humans and think of them as his sons. No sane man would craft robots to do his odds and ends, like his chores and bills and other tasks like making and pouring tea, things he could easily do himself, all so he doesn't have to hire a maid or the like. It's madness, Sherlock is aware, but he cares for his father regardless, in that way all things care for what created them.

When John enters the house, he freezes in place. "Are those… robots?"

"My father is a cyber-genetic engineer. He created the job, much as I created mine. You see, John, he makes machines with 'genes' that dictate what their main purposes and functions are. For example, that one is meant to dust, and only dust. That one is meant to hoover. He will explain it to you over tea," Sherlock relays with as much casualness in his tone as he can muster. He keeps his face schooled, expressionless. He clasps his hands behind his back and walks forward, leading John throughout the house.

The house is big. Mr. Holmes, Senior must have a lot of money. Oh, but of course he does; he makes robots. The funding must come from somewhere – the government, perhaps? Mycroft could have gotten a position in it because of what his father can do, John thinks – and he must make money off of his inventions. It's only logical, John supposes.

They enter the drawing room and take their seats, although Sherlock prefers to stand, barking orders at the small 'bots and batting a few of the flying ones out of his face as they seem to greet him like a pet might.

"Ah, Dr. Watson! How good to finally meet the man who has tamed my son," the man muses as he walks into the room, a 'bot carrying a tea tray behind him. John stands, and the man shakes John's hand. "Come, sit, sit! Let us get to talking. I understand that it's been some years since you've seen my son, and now you want some answers. Well, for starters, let's get you some tea, yes?"

John has a perpetual frown of confusion on his face, but he nods, seats himself, and takes the tea the little robot offers. It is shaped, unlike many of the robots in the house, to be a little butler. An owl-butler. It's metallic wings flap, gears whirring, eyes adorably large saucers, and it bears a little hat and a little waistcoat with tails and a bowtie, and it's clawed feet are clutched to its round, metal body. It's adorable, but strange, and John blinks, forces a smile, and accepts the tea the owl-butler pours for him.

"Cute, isn't he? I've always fancied birds, particularly birds of prey, such as the owl. I made him first to be a pet, one that wouldn't make a mess or do things I otherwise disliked, but then I saw an illustration in a child's book where all the animals were like high-class citizens from the 1800s, and I simply had to make him my little butler," Mr. Holmes says with a chuckle. He takes sip of his tea. "Mm. Now then. I suppose the first order of business would be to tell you that I made Sherlock."

"Pardon?" John says, coughing into his tea. He sets it down in its saucer and blinks at the older gentleman. "You don't mean…"

"Oh yes, he's an android. A perfect human replica. Artificial intelligence, just like half a dozen science-fiction films out there. He can think for himself, work out puzzles, has eyes that work better than the most high-tech binoculars, and can pick up sounds from 2.3 kilometers away. He can run without getting tired – although, to appear human, I gave him a heavy-breathing function for after a run, so not to make people wonder – and he doesn't need to sleep or eat. He recharges himself with kinetic energy – so movement, really, is what keeps him going – and Sleep Mode. And I enabled him, unlike his brother, with the H.E.A.R.T. program," the man says proudly, taking a few more dainty sips of tea.

John stares. "You're joking. This is a joke, right? Something you thought I'd believe to make it easier to process that my best friend didn't actually die, somehow lived? And showing me all these little robots running around, that's mean to help prove it, right? But that can't be right! It's impossible!"

"I assure that it is not, John," Sherlock says quietly. He makes an open gesture. "Mycroft is the same, although he lacks the H.E.A.R.T. program. He functions more efficiently than I do without it. But he and I are one and the same. Brothers, so to speak, because of who made us and how we were built, so similarly 'genetic' on the inside," and he sounds irritated by that. He clears his gears in his throat and straightens his posture. "It is the truth, John. I will show you if you like."

John is reeling. He leans back in his chair and tries not to gape like a fish out of water. He swallows. "Show me, then. Yeah. I need to see it to believe it."

"Very well," Sherlock says with a slight sigh.

"Oh, wonderful!" cheers Mr. Holmes, setting aside his teacup and leaping to his feet. He giddily waltzes over to his "son" and turns him around, shedding his clothes and revealing what looks like any natural-born man's lithe body, nipples and muscles and skin and all. But then, he goes to under Sherlock's hairline and presses his pinky finger into a spot just behind Sherlock's ear. And then there is a noise, like escaped steam, and he gently tuges back skin.

To reveal shiny metal bone and elastic muscle. Rubber and wires and oh my God.

John stands and does gape. He walks closer and sees it: the glow of an impossible would-be brain, a metal skull, wires upon wires going down into Sherlock's neck, all organized, clean tubes, color-coded with the same rubbery wax of any wire John has seen in an electrical box.

"I'll be damned," John whispers. "It's true."

"But so lifelike, isn't he? Even down to his weight. I made sure to use the strongest, lightest metals I could buy. He feels, were you to carry him, like flesh and bone. His skin is made to feel as soft and real as yours or mine, and his hair is, in fact, a wig made from someone's actual hair. But he is completely inauthentic. Nothing about his innards are human. Brilliant, isn't it?" Mr. Holmes glows with pride, doing back up Sherlock's skin until he appears normal again.

"More brilliant than anything I have ever seen. How could someone make this, and so well? It's… it's mind-blowing," John murmurs. He feels as though he might faint. This is a bit too much to take. The only time he has felt this overwhelmed was when Sherlock appeared before him not a week ago. And that makes for bad news for him, because having this many scares in one week can't be healthy. He'll wind up having a premature stroke.

"Oh, thank you," Mr. Holmes says with a smile that John can't place as anything other than sincere, although that word doesn't quite fully describe it, not the way it seems to radiate and make the man seem so much younger in John's eyes.

The older gentleman sits down and resumes his tea, and, not knowing what else to do (and trying to keep himself from staring at Sherlock now that he has this new discovery in mind), joins him. They drink their tea mostly in silence, while Sherlock pivots and goes off on a few of the lesser robots and shouts at them to quit crowding him, and do their work, and for-God's-sake-I-am-not-your-mommy-so-stop-looking-at-me-like-lost-chicks.

"Sherlock, quit yelling at them!" the ex-army doctor hollers, half tossing the words over his shoulder. "They don't know any better, I don't think!"

Mr. Holmes chuckles and sets down his tea, his owl refilling it. "So, John, tell me something."

"What would you like to know?" John supplies as his answer as he sets aside his tea and waves off the owl when it goes to refill it. John's trying to work through this, process it, and he would much rather answer a question or two and ask one, because he has way too many, and somehow, too little to mention.

"Disregarding what you know about Sherlock now, how did you feel about him before?" Mr. Holmes wants to know. He is suddenly dead serious. "And I want the God's honest truth."

John pinks in the face. He wills it away with a rubbing over his face with one hand. He sighs loudly. "Well, I always thought he was a bit of a dick. He didn't care about anyone but himself, really, and he was rude and untidy and –" He huffs in defeat. He runs a hand through his hair. "And he was brilliant and oddly attractive and captivating and dangerous and wonderful."

Mr. Holmes smiles. "You see, that's what I wanted to hear," he says. And he knows Sherlock is listening in, but he doesn't sugarcoat what he says next. "And this is why I know you're the perfect person for my son."

John blinks. He raises his head and stares at the man. "Do you mean –"

"Yes, perfect in ever sense of the word," the inventive engineer seems to go on. "The perfect colleague, the perfect flatmate, the perfect friend, the perfect lover to make Sherlock's H.E.A.R.T. a reality. You are precisely the right sort of person for all of those things. You care about him, you take care of him, and he cares for you in return. It's the perfect match. I couldn't have built you better myself, I don't think," he says, amused. He leans forward and pats John's knee. "Does that bother you? That you're the perfect fit for a robot?"

John sputters. "I, uh, I'm not – that is, I don't think – I mean, ehm…" He shakes his head and laughs nervously, sliding back in his seat to rest against the back of the chair. "Wow. How is that possible though? I'm not anyone special, and – and, God, you don't mean for he and I to be…? Because I don't even know if you made him for – uh –"

"Oh, no, nothing physical, my boy! He doesn't even have private parts. The shape of a rear for sitting and walking, yes, but essentially a eunuch. Or a doll. There's nothing there, I should say, and I made him asexual for that reason, to keep others from thinking they could have that with him, to keep others from trying to have that with him." He shakes his head, "I don't mean for you to have sexual relations with him! I only meant the tenderness, John. The affection, the love, the care. He needs that. And I was hoping you could give as much to him," Mr. Holmes explains hastily, trying not to smile. It is a bit funny, though. Just a bit. He bites his cheek to keep from laughing at how embarrassed the poor blond man looks now.

Well, this explains the whole exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock concerning Irene Adler; sex doesn't alarm Sherlock because it is mere information about human interaction to him, and he wouldn't know from experience because he is incapable of having it. Makes sense.

Doesn't make John feel any less foolish, however.

John clears his throat. "Um, so. You just want me to… what? Stay his friend? Not hide my feelings?"

"Precisely. Tell him, on your own terms, how you feel about him. And I pray it works, because he should be able to feel the same. I need to know if he does, because he's called himself a sociopath in the past, thinking his emotions weren't real and therefore invalid and impossible, but that isn't true. He's capable of love. He just needs the right person to share it with, and I think you are said person," Mr. Holmes urges quietly. He smiles warmly and stands. "Now then, I think it's about time I left the pair of you to yourselves. Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"Goodbye, sir," John half-mumbles as he gives a shaky smile and joins hands with the man.

Then Sherlock enters the room, John's coat in hand, and the pair of them leave the home and head for their own via cab, like always. And, like they often do, the hold a comfortable silence between them the entire way back to Baker Street.