PARA/DOX

The Only Good Man You'll Meet

They found a good spot underneath some of the band lockers, the large metal boxes that were designed specifically to prevent the instruments from getting stolen and deformed by those who considered band to be a mediocre and shameful activity. In fact they were probably nestled underneath Musgrave's trombone. Sherlock sat on one side and Musgrave on the other; the two sharing what contents were in Sherlock's lunch so as to make sure the neglectful Musgrave didn't starve to death. For a while they talked about other things, perhaps out of Musgrave's intentions of not being so prying with the secretive and sparse information. Though after a while anyone's curiosity got the better of them, and when their conversation about the upcoming school play fell short the boy leaned forward, snatching up the last grape from the container and looking upon his companion with glowing and rather transfixed grey eyes.
"Tell me what the agency is like." He suggested. "Do they have robots?"
"No robots. In fact I've not been there enough to properly gauge." Sherlock admitted.
"What are they going to do with you? Clone you? Or put your brain in a robot?" Musgrave suggested.
"God I hope not." Sherlock growled, pulling his fingers through his curls for good measure, just to make sure they hadn't removed his brain without his realizing it.
"So what are they doing?" Musgrave insisted, obviously not satisfied with the answer provided. Sherlock sighed, letting his head fall back upon the metal scaffolding as he tried to remember just what Doctor Moriarty had planned for him. There had been so much thrown at him in that one instant, too much to be honest.
"Something about time travel, I think. Using me to help others cross through. And helping me manipulate time as well." Sherlock admitted.
"Manipulate it? Like...like change the past?" Musgrave asked with a gasp. "You can kill baby Hitler!"
"I'm sure they won't allow me to do anything quite so extensive." Sherlock assured with a small chuckle.
"I never understood the problem in saving so many lives." Musgrave grumbled unimpressively.
"Time isn't so easily explained. It's linear but it's...it's random. I couldn't try to explain it simply because I don't know, but something tells me it's not just formalities that would make history difficult to change. It's timing, and it's the essence of time itself. It's stamped, permanent. Every second that goes by seems to be quite immovable." Sherlock admitted with a sigh.
"Well, I'm sure if that's not true you'll be the one to prove it." Musgrave suggested. Sherlock groaned, finishing of the last of his tuna sandwich with a disappointed bite.
"So much pressure to be the leader in all of this garbage. I'd rather just be a kid, be normal. I don't want to pioneer humans into their next phase of evolution. God, I'd just rather play the violin in string symphony, or be a backup singer for the Sound of Music." Sherlock grumbled.
"I didn't know you played violin?" Musgrave exclaimed, his face growing flushed in sheer excitement. Sherlock shrugged humbly, having forgotten in his transparency that he had kept most of his side hobbies a secret from the general public. He always found it embarrassing to enjoy something, as if it was something to be ashamed of. That's why he had always respected Musgrave, that boy was never afraid to be passionate about the things he enjoyed. He'd marry that trombone if he could.
"I guess I'm just an enigma inside and out." Sherlock sighed, to which Musgrave chuckled his agreement.
"Nothing wrong with that. It's just strange that someone so special could have been plopped right here in our little town. Strange that I'd have the opportunity to sit under the lockers with someone who will have their own Wikipedia page someday." Musgrave sighed.
"I should hope to have more than that!" Sherlock exclaimed with a chuckle. "But don't worry. Something tells me your part in this could earn you at least an honorable mention."
"Oh ya? As valiant best friend?" Musgrave grinned.
"Something like that I'm sure." Sherlock agreed, daring a smile in return.  

That afternoon Sherlock was back at the lab, though this time he was being led around like a dog on a leash, given the restricted access tour of the very laboratory he would be contributing to. The lab itself wasn't very large, though in essence there wasn't a lot they could do inside. It was the mechanics of the operation that took up the most space, and of course they were building their complex machines far away from where they were handling their most delicate subject. The laboratory was a white room, complete with a couple of tables for dramatic effect. There were fume hoods in the back, beakers and vials lining the shelves, cabinets with large locks on the doors. Most impressively there was a staff of scientists, all with white coats and curious eyes, lined up to meet their new 'coworker'. That was of course Doctor Moriarty's word of choice, though Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that they were simply eying him as a new slab of meat, one to be poked and prodded to see how it reacted to pressure. Their glares were intimidating, though thankfully Sherlock could take advantage of his dark sunglasses and avoid all immediate eye contact. That was something he learned to do quite well, keep the glasses trained in the proper eye contact position all while his true gaze wandered this way and that, afraid to stare too deeply. The oldest of the group seemed to be almost seventy, the youngest even closer to Victor's age, but with a wide range in between. It would seem as though every demographic, every age, had come out to support the search for time travel. Sherlock could tell they were amazed, he could see their skin nearly vibrating with the enthusiasm of the coming work. Their fingers were clenched, anxious to get around his face, to tear the glasses from his eyes. They looked about one moment away from devouring him whole, just to see what his internal mechanisms were. Sherlock shivered, turning back towards his more trusted companions, if trust was even a word to use.
"Why don't we get you set up with some preliminary tests?" Doctor Moriarty suggested, waving the scientists away as soon as they had all stooped into their bows and nodded their heads in greeting.
"What sort?" Sherlock wondered anxiously. He was thankful to hear the retreating footsteps of the scientists, their little chorus of slip resistant shoes as they exited the laboratory to work on their ongoing projects.
"The usual sort." Moriarty assured. "Just a basic health screening. We want to be sure you're healthy before we start depending millions of dollars upon you."
"Is that why you've assigned me a body guard?" Sherlock wondered, nodding backwards to where he knew Victor to be lingering. It came to be that the man's presence hovered like a fog, a presence that could not be ignored nor could it hide so easily. He stuck out in every landscape; he didn't seem to belong even in the building that had sculpted him.
"He's not a body guard; he's merely...well insurance. Call him insurance." Moriarty suggested.
"Insurance?" Sherlock grumbled. "Sounds an awful lot like body guard to me."
"Enough of this, we don't pay you to ask questions. Come along Sherlock." Moriarty demanded, beginning his way back into the maze of doors until they found another open one, one which seemed to be awaiting their presence. It was strange, much different than a real doctor's in many ways. For starters the doctor seemed to have gotten there first, contrary to each and every appointment Sherlock had made in the real world. No matter how urgent he always had to wait at least ten minutes for his due attention, whereas today in the agency it felt as though the doctor had been the one waiting for him. It was perhaps the first time Sherlock realized the importance of his role in the world. Of his privilege, per say.
"Victor, stay with him." Moriarty mumbled as he lingered in the doorway, pushing his counterpart into the room after Sherlock and disappearing himself back down the hall. Victor scuffed inside, pulling the door shut to give them their due privacy. Sherlock lingered into the room, one which did a terrible job of posing as a legitimate doctor's office. There were none of the posters about smoking or pregnancy, no diagrams of a heart choked with cholesterol. The only things that rang true were the pieces of furniture, the typical paper lined plastic examination table and a small swiveling stool, one for the doctor to move around with ease. To Sherlock's surprise this small stool was where the doctor now sat, forcing his new patient to look down with amazement. Sitting down the man hardly reached three feet, so small that Sherlock doubted he would make much ground up when finally he did stand. Beyond that he looked young, too young to be a proper professional, at least. Sherlock was used to his doctors being one foot in the grave, though this man looked more as if he had one foot in the womb.
"Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor exclaimed, his excitement seeming to take control of his learned manners as he sprung to his feet. The chair went swiveling back into the wall, the Doctor growing at least two feet so that he stood reasonably above the ground. Though he was still too small to be given much immediate respect, for Sherlock had to bow his head almost into his chest before he could find the gaze he was expected to meet.
"It's an honor to meet you sir, an honor. They've been telling me so much, and believe it or not I'm a scientist too, not just a doctor, and I'm so interested in this, all of this, and the concept of time travel is just...well it's enough to make a healthy man stoop over from a heart attack!" the Doctor exclaimed, his blonde head bobbling up and down as he shot out a hand to capture Sherlock's, wrenching it between both hands as if this was his way of aggressive greeting. The doctor hardly caught a breath during his final declaration, for now he was nearly panting in his newly arranged silence. Victor took a great sigh of disappointment, falling into the blue plastic chair that was usually assigned for the mother.
"Get on with it, Watson." Victor groaned, crossing his legs and leaning back upon the armrests as if it were a throne. The name cut through Sherlock like a sharp breath, causing him to shiver into realization. Watson, could it be a common name? Or was this the man he was fated to meet?
"Right, right." Watson agreed, bowing his head in due respect before final releasing Sherlock's grip and turning towards the table for his supplies. "Sit up on the table there, Sherlock. Oh, and take off your clothes."
"What? I thought you said this was just..."
"Oh don't be modest." Victor groaned, as if with every word out of his companion's mouth he got more and more embarrassed. It was unclear what audience he thought he had, as he seemed to take personal offense to both the doctor and the patient's remarks. Well certainly there must be cameras, now that Sherlock pondered the idea he could spot at least two lenses sprouted from the corners of the wall. So there was an audience, an official audience. The elder Trevor, perhaps. Doctor Moriarty. Sherlock turned crimson, though he reluctantly began to unbutton his jacket.
"You can keep your underwear on if you'd like." Watson assured. "We just need to look you over, make sure nothing's noticeably wrong."
"Fine, but I'm charging him for the show." Sherlock growled, noticing Victor's unwavering attention as he shed his topmost layer and began to work on his shirt with some agitation.
"You villainize me." Victor whined, casting his hands over his eyes as if to make Sherlock feel more comfortable. Thankfully this did make him at least a bit more motivated, and Sherlock emerged from his clothes and sat down upon the examination table before Victor could give up his little ploy of dignity. The Doctor approached him with a stethoscope at first, prodding at his bare chest and steadying him with a hand upon his shoulder. Sherlock was given no choice but to shiver, unaccustomed to feeling fingers upon his bare skin. The Doctor had a curious grip, soft fingers but calloused hands, as if he worked all day but moisturized at night.
"Breathe in, three times." The Doctor instructed. Sherlock did as he was told, left with no choice but to examine Watson almost as extensively as the man was examining him. Though Sherlock didn't use fancy tools, no he only used his eyes, his eyes which were accredited with being more impressive than most. He couldn't be any older than twenty, a young man in the midst of old and decrepit coworkers. His skin was tanned naturally, as if he had spent his youth in the sun, though by now he was beginning to fade into the pale jaundice of a lab rat, staying indoors within these white walls as if he had assigned himself enthusiastically to prison. His eyes were a deep brown, inquisitive but respectful. In fact it was the only gaze that Sherlock met with ease; it was the only gaze that didn't seem to be hiding something devious.
"You said you were a scientist and a doctor?" Sherlock presumed. "At this age?"
"I've had an early start. An early education." Watson explained.
"A prodigy in the time travel sciences?" Sherlock wondered, almost laughing at the ridiculous stream of words that issued from his mouth.
"So I thought." Watson mumbled, at last releasing the stethoscope from Sherlock's chest and repositioning it upon his back. "Turns out it takes more than an early start and a perfect SAT to get in deep. I've devoted almost my whole academic career to the likes of you, and they still won't let me do anything but count your heart rate."
"The likes of me?" Sherlock blinked. Watson hesitated, using Sherlock's next series of big breaths to ponder his answer.
"Your brother, I mean." He explained quickly. "I dedicated my early years to him."
"You knew Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, finding it hard to believe that a man nearly his own age could have met his brother in any meaningful way. Certainly this Watson was hardly ten years old by the time Mycroft had died?
"I knew of him. I got the documents, I got the files. I worked on him for years, without their knowing. He was actually my undergraduate thesis. I skipped graduate school, actually. They recruited me right away." The Doctor chuckled. "Recruited me for this. For health screenings."
"Stop whining, Watson." Victor complained. "No wonder you're already sprouting wrinkles."
"They're concentration lines, Victor." Watson defended. Sherlock smiled, feeling an almost immediate empathy for the man who was now stooped overtop of his bare shoulder. It was strange to hear a sob story, strange even more to hear a legitimate emotion within these barren walls. It would seem as though the agency still hadn't drained the life out of this doctor.
"What's your name?" Sherlock asked hopefully, finding that he liked this man enough to trust him. The old traveler had promised that John Watson was the only man he could trust within these white walls, and it would seem that evaluation would match perfectly.
"Watson." The man admitted, frowning as if that should have been obvious. He withdrew, setting aside the stethoscope and replacing it with a lighted device for which to look into Sherlock's ears.
"Your first name." Sherlock corrected. The man chuckled, a strange sound for someone who was currently investigating ear canals.
"Oh. John." he admitted, letting Sherlock's curls fall back into place as he moved on to the other side of his head. Sherlock nodded, knowing that was coming. Knowing the name to expect. So it was him, this man who was destined to appear at his side.
"John. Good to meet you." Sherlock smiled. The Doctor laughed again, this time stabbing into Sherlock's ear a bit aggressively with the plastic tipped light.
"Good to meet you too." John mumbled into the side of Sherlock's head. Victor shifted in his seat, nestling his chin on his fist as if dealing with the two youngest men in the agency began to feel more exhaustive than babysitting. Nevertheless it was his sole duty to endure. John took up a small flashlight in one hand, though the other hesitated. Evidently he had the intent of removing Sherlock's glasses, though he thankfully realized that it was an invasive act. Sherlock even winced to see the arm rise, as he guessed the Doctor's motives immediately.