Chapter Text
Static.
Static.
Staticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstatic
staticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstatic
staticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstaticstatic –
John’s eyes snap open, and he jerks out of the clutch of his bed sheets.
Nightmares are better than this.
With a grunt, John swings his buzzing metal and polymer limb over the edge of the mattress. He groans – the connection has timed out. He can feel the numbness, the empty space where his awareness of his leg should be.
Shit.
John breathes through the tightness in his throat and the clench in his gut. After a few moments, he’s ready to think his way through this delightful new adventure.
Back in the days before cyberthetics, John remembers, back then amputees who reported phantom limb sensations had a higher success rate of incorporating their prosthetic limbs into their awareness of self. John remembers reading about subjects who explained the need to ‘wake up’ the phantom limb, to rekindle nervous system awareness so that proprioception could assist in balance and movement.
Slapping, John recalls. They slapped the end of the limb – the scar tissue.
John eyes his leg. That would be… difficult – especially considering his cyberthetic is implanted directly into his hip socket.
The grenade had collapsed the wall, all the dust and dried mud that held all the stones, broken bricks, and small boulders in place.
The grenade had collapsed the wall, and the wall had collapsed John’s leg.
His leg had been ruined up to the mid-thigh point, but he’d been counseled to allow a full graft. Apparently things got… complicated when joints were involved – something to do with natural wear and tear and the weight of obedient metal swinging with each step.
John had let the leg go.
Which makes finding a – a – a stump to slap awake that much more difficult. John peers at his leg, clenching his jaw muscle. (What he should be doing is calling down to Sherlock, who is probably already (or still) awake. He should ask for help in getting to the Clinic. He should call and schedule an emergency tech session.)
John grinds his teeth as the sizzle of neural silence wears down his patience. Maybe if he agitates the edges of his flesh where they feed into -
No.
Maybe if he jars the entire limb –
No.
Maybe a judicious application of electricity…
N – perhaps.
John takes apart his alarm clock, which is located within reach on his bedside table, which is convenient for his purposes. Although it might mean having to get a new clock. The wires pull easily from the plastic housing, and John peels the two leads apart with a small tug. He strips the wires with a small pair of scissors her keeps in his bedside drawer.
Maybe I can get an upgrade for my leg, and it can be my alarm clock, John thinks, almost delirious with the weirdness of the sensation. That blankness, that numbness, is pooling in his left hip socket. It’s making his teeth ache, making his fingers itch.
With the exposed wires carefully held in his quivering left hand, John regards his leg. He chooses the joining right below his actual, organic hipbone. He scoots the synthetic ‘skin’ sock down a few inches, exposing the dull gleam of metal and tubing. For a moment, John is motionless, his eyes caught on the juxtaposition of soft and hard.
With a shuddering breath, John focuses his attention on the skin – his skin. He spits, and the saliva lands to coat his skin. Before he can talk himself out of this (because, really, if this doesn’t work he has to call the Clinic anyway, and it won’t matter if he has a tiny bit of electrical damage, they’ll have to re-attune his leg anyway) John shoves the contact points against the conducting wetness against his skin –
The sharp jolt is unpleasant but not painful.
What is painful is the sensation of his leg coming back online. Sharp, electric pings and stabs writhe through his flesh, and for a moment he actually forgets the metal and tubing beneath the flesh-patterned sock of ‘skin’ isn’t actually his, because the sensation is so overwhelmingly present.
Pins and needles, John thinks, hissing in his next few breaths, has absolutely nothing on this. The sensation dies away after about two minutes, at which point John realizes he’s actually rubbing his thigh to increase the fucking circulation.
John lifts his hands away as if burned – then lowers them slowly to touch the edge of the ‘skin.’ After a moment, he gives it a firm tug, settling its edge back into place, then pushing until he feels the little snaps take hold. Slowly, the patchy anathia shimmers away, his leg’s sense of touch returning like a warehouse full of fluorescent lights flickering on.
His leg, tingling and alive and present in his awareness once more, seems none the worse for the abuse. In fact, only his hip shows any evidence of what transpired: a little red patch is blossoming where John held the wires.
A few more moments, and John feels comfortable enough to swing both legs over, standing up. His cyberthetic functions perfectly, and John has no need of flailing or falling or asking to be taken to the Clinic.
Well then. Good.
John unplugs his makeshift shock-treatment from the wall for safety’s sake, then stands for a moment, thoughtful. All that, accomplished without the need or aid of a technician. Food for thought.
And speaking of food.
Breakfast.