Chapter summary:John Watson is a clone. Everybody knows except Sherlock.

Week 0

Key words: Dummy initialization, Test run, Module installation

Description: Physical growth complete. Mental performance satisfactory. Chips functional. Muscles lack practice – clumsy.

Comments: Needs more input to pass as 30-year-old citizen.

"Aww, there he is! I swear I could have kept him, or make one for myself some day." Professor Moriarty is being unnecessarily emotional about his product this particular time. He rubs his hands as the white adult male takes a step out of the breeding-pool, wonder-filled blue eyes wincing in the cold florescent light of Galaxy Megalophiology Laboratory.

"Don't you dare," Moran hisses.

"Although, I would have preferred a prototype with your degree of hotness, minus the tantrum." Professor Moriarty ignores his assistant's snort. "What's the bio of our prototype again?"

"John H. Watson, M.D., born at the end of the 1900s, invalided from the British army in his 30s and taught at a hospital until he died. Was married with two kids. Left his DNA footprint when treated for a gun wound in Afghanistan – that would be at the basement of Persepolis Arcade, if you care."

"No, I don't . So, an army doctor, huh. How is our dummy's brain coping with that?"

"Exceptionally well. Although the contents of our knowledge modules are beyond his 21-century self's imagination, he is grown with way better nutrition than the original. You picked the prototype out of our 1000-year database – Did you not think about all that?" Moran protests.

"Hey, I had the idea, but you did the thing. I'll be Daddy," Professor Moriarty puts his arm around the engineer's waist, "and you'll be Mummy, Sebbie. A Mother always knows best."

"Oh please stop, you're making me sick." Moran retorts, with a wry smile.

"Actually, John H. Watson's features just struck me as peculiar, mundane as he was. Research shows that opposites attract – who's to say that our tall, dark-haired genius would not find the appeal of a short, blond companion?"

"You're one crazy match-maker." Moran laughs.

"Also, a background of violence and surgery practice– what could be a better way of getting to our murder-loving consulting detective?"

Moran looks at him incredulously. "Damn right. Look who's the genius here."

"Oh, you flatter me, Seb. But the truth is that I could not be farther from it. Like those lacking artistic talent inevitably turn to art criticism, I, deprived of Nature's gift, am doomed to merely pursue an analytical understanding of it."

"Hullo, Mike."

"Strange is the wind that bore the esteemed Professor Moriarty to my humble lab." Dr. Stamford says drily. "What can I do for you? You could have just sent your assistant over for whatever you want."

"How is your experiment going? " Professor Moriarty lazily strolls up to the long series of stacked silicon tubes.

"Leave them alone." Dr. Stamford steps up angrily.

"Easy, Mike, I'm not breaking anything. I know your stuff as well as my own. In fact, I just happened to skim over a fundamental flaw in your project design, submitted to the Galaxy Science Committee last month -"

"You can't say that with confidence." Dr. Stamford keeps a cool stance. "This whole field is new, and the fundamentals are not even well-defined yet. Only time and test results will validate my design."

"True, true." Professor Moriarty nods. "Then it is a pity for science, that my mere words should have an ill-deserved impact upon the clay-heads that make up the Committee. You can't run these darlings on faculty salary," he caresses a fervently whizzing equipment, "can you?"

The corner of Dr. Stamford's mouth twitches. "What do you want?"

Professor Moriarty suppresses a triumphant smile. "Ah, it's quite simple. In a week's time, I will present you a nice bloke, and you will introduce him as an old acquaintance of yours to our mutual friend, Sherlock Holmes. It's easier that way. Sherlock can use another friend, can he not?"

Holmes the senior opens his umbrella as he steps out of 221B Baker Jet-street, although the sky is barely cloudy. The routine visit to his little brother is as smooth as an encounter with any sociopath can be, but even Sherlock seems a little more placable than usual, with a meekly pleasant new 'friend' by his side.

"Sir, there are foreign elements embedded in the new tenant's body, one of them terminative. The digital fingerprint of said element has no match in the Galaxy Clone Control System." Reports Anthea. A subtle badge on her arm, almost blending into her outfit, bespeaks a higher authority than her compliant appearance suggests.

"No match indeed? Good. Not your average clone." Holmes the senior strokes his chin with his other hand. "That confirms my suspicion. The addition, or rather the creation, of John Watson the 30-year-old's Identity, was too recent an event in the Galaxy Citizen Record. Hacks by clone endorsers do happen, sometimes for benevolence, sometimes with more malicious intents, since even this most highly guarded Record has a 0.001% annual disturbance tolerance. But this case should not escape my attention, where my little brother is concerned."

"Shall we investigate, Sir?" Anthea asks.

"Eventually, yes, but make no move yet." Mycroft lets out a sigh. "Apparently this flatmate is tailored for Sherlock's company. Although the motive behind this curious design is unclear, I would be lying to say that I have never considered this option myself. Watch the duo closely. We shall see what the day brings."