Title: Watershed
Author: finangler
Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson (and any other recognizable characters) are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle and any other current legal owners; not myself, who has used them for entertainment's sake only.
Rating: M (Sexually suggestive content, mature subject matter to include drug usage and violence.)
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Word Count: Approx. 40,000
Summary: In the year 2207, John Watson went to war.
Notes: So this is in response to the SH kinkmeme anon prompt: "SH in space". Which I ran with and abused shamelessly in order to create this ridiculously long, possibly insane AU. While my SciFi vision has more in common with Firefly or Bladerunner than, say, Star Trek or Star Wars, it isn't a crossover. No outside fandom knowledge required! Secondly, this story does contain sexually explicit scenes. However, in deference to 's Terms of Service, this version has been edited not to include them. If you would like the full version of the story, and are of legal age to do so, please go to my Livejournal, the link to which is in my profile.
Warnings: A smattering of Japanese and Russian words/phrases, definitions of which I've listed below. Don't worry; it's not full sentences or dialogue and it may not even be completely correct, anyway. Also, warnings for, ya know, the crack that is Sherlock Holmes in space.
--kun=an honorific tag, denoting close friendship or equality (KOON)
--san=an honorific tag, denoting formality (SAHN)
-aibou=partner (AI-bo)
-yokatta="Thank goodness!" (yo-ka-TA)
-matte=wait (MA-teh)
-tadaima="Welcome home" (ta-DAI-mah)
-Mizu Yori Aoshi=Bluer than Water (MEE-zu YO-ri AO-shi)
-passazh=Arcade (pa-SAHSH)
-Arkyli=sharks (ar-KU-lee)
-tak i buit="So be it" (tok ee bwee)
-kracivi=Beautiful (kra-SEE-vee)
-zhal="too bad"
-drug=friend (droog)
-geist=ghost
Ok, on to the fic!
On this day, we stand at the threshold of the skies. Four great nations, to form one entity to cross from the embrace of the Earth to the out-held hand of space. And we shall reach out to meet it.
--Tom Murakoa, President of the International Aeronautical Association, March 1, 2159
In the year 2159, the four major superpowers of Earth--Japan, the United States of America, the European Coalition and the Chinese-Russo Confederation--united to slip the bonds of Earth and began an initiative to terraform distant planets of a neighboring solar system for the purpose of human colonization. Twenty colonies were formed, eventually creating a loose confederation of planets known as the "Sector", and the venture was labeled a resounding success. The type of success on which the peoples of Earth, now ostensibly one people, could affix their hopes.
In the year 2207, John Watson went to war.
"Number twenty, Ni ju, Ni ju, number twenty." The voice was purposefully digitized to be melodic and pleasant. It shouldn't have been enough to rouse John Watson, as soft as it was, but his sleep had hardly been deep to begin with. His leg gave a horrid twitch as he pushed himself from the white sterilized wall that had been supporting him these last three hours. It was difficult to maneuver around the packed waiting vestibule--standing room only. The war had been unkind and long, and Watson couldn't even indulge in the self-pity he dearly wanted to when he looked around at the other shattered bodies and minds shoved onto every hard surface, including the floor. Men and women, battered and broken, some even more so than him. A few he had stitched back together himself, before his own injuries had earned him a one-way ticket from the battlescape.
The smell of the self-heating antiseptic coating should have overwhelmed him since every surface was covered in it. Strangely enough, it didn't, for Lord knew he hadn't smelled it anywhere near often enough in his own mobile surgery. It had been a luxury they couldn't afford.
Watson finally made his way to the reception kiosk, his left leg nearly a dead weight dragging behind him thanks to the inactivity and long waiting period.
"Captain John Watson." His voice was scratchy and hoarse, the result of breathing too much of New Apolla's sandy atmosphere, just barely labeled "Habitable" after a long, difficult terraforming process. There was nothing memorable about the place except sand and blood mixed together until the yellow ground had turned iron red. In retrospect, Watson couldn't guess what the appeal of the place was to justify the bloody conflict and the 18 months of misery he had endured.
"Please step into the scanning room, Captain," the vaguely female voice intoned, as his dogtags were scanned by the sensors. His own entry photograph appeared on the holographic screen, as unfamiliar as a stranger's. He entered the threshold, removing his uniform as he went. The triage scanner was very thorough, but it was so finely tuned, as to be completely non-invasive. A diagnostic screen registered his vitals, x-rays, and sonograms as he watched. There were too many wounded to be seen individually by doctors, so all were initially triaged before the most injured were passed through for consult. Watson knew he would be. The scanner was just yet one more indignity to be suffered. The whirring sound as it worked heightened to a crescendo pitch, reminding Watson uncomfortably of the sound made by the Miner's Grenade, a horrid little device that, once exploded, sent its shrapnel drilling into its victim, burrowing until it lodged in bone. Sometimes, even further still, as it had in his own ruined shoulder and hip. Just as he felt his leg was about to give out, the scan finished.
A slightly less melodic voice commanded: "Please step through to see the doctor."
"I'm sorry to see that we're not making as much progress as we'd like."
"No, we're not."
"I think perhaps we should increase your dosage."
"Alright."
"And…"
"Yes?"
"Perhaps you should start looking for alternate employment. Local employment."
Watson stepped off the strata rail, and trudged down the raised pathway towards the tenements. Mizuyoriaoshi was a beautiful planet, completely opposite from New Apolla in every way. Where he had grown accustomed to airtight buildings, sealed to keep the sand out and the glaring black reflection of solar panels, his new, temporary home was almost completely water. Supposedly, it was designed that way by the terraforming engineers that had converted the planet from a gas cloud to its current aqueous state.
Whether by design or fate, the Territorial Army had chosen well to build the Veteran Medical Headquarters here. It was an inherently soothing place, with the sound of waves never far away, and the architecture built to be tall and windowed and open, green, man-made parks dotted throughout. Multi-leveled platforms and a veritable maze of connecting walkways, bridges and ramps made up the dizzyingly tall, yet surprisingly open landscape. Watson confessed he found himself getting lost quite frequently. Just when he'd think he'd found the right District, Sector and Section, he would learn that his target was a level or two above, or perhaps even over, requiring yet more walking, more navigating that he was finding he did not have the strength for.
But it was still beautiful: white and transparent and the culmination of all the promises that had been made to the preceding colonists.
Not that you would know it from his current living conditions, which were located on the complete opposite side of Seastead, this capital city he now haunted like a misplaced phantasm.
Constantly strolling holographic tickers announced the latest updates in cheery, rapid-fire tones in the four major languages, reminding him to conserve water, to avoid staying out in the sun too long, to buy food at Misuki's Market if he wanted the best brands and prices. As if there were no other cares to be had, on this world or any other.
The strata rail glided away from the stop. He shouldn't have taken it, he knew. It was expensive to take the silent, suspended railcars that criss-crossed the planet, and Watson was only permitted so much money while on disability. But even walking was a chore, now. He and many others of his fellow out-patients had converged on one of the less expensive hostels in the area. The owner was rarely there and didn't question the goings-on of soldiers with too much time and too little occupation. The walls were dull grey permacrete, and each room only had one tiny view screen, but compared to where Watson had been living, it was almost luxurious.
He pulled out his electronic key, sticking the slotted end into the key hole and allowing his thumb print to be scanned by the flat end. The name of the hostel was emblazoned on the side of the device, yet another reminder that he was, for all intents and purposes, homeless. The key was supposedly synced for his prints only, until he was either checked out or chucked out. He had his doubts as to that, judging from the shifty appearance of the manager. But he could only be amused by his own paranoia; he had precious little worth stealing.
Idly, Watson entertained the idea of calling his brother. It was easy enough to call a person planet-side, to send voice, video or holographic messages. But, calling to another planet was slow, and expensive, and frequently one-sided if you couldn't afford the technology for a live feed. It hardly seemed worth it; he didn't have anything new to tell his brother, and he doubted Jim would be interested in anything he said anyway.
He was choking, dust and blood blurring his vision, sticking to his sweat, running down his face and into his eyes. It was unbearable. A shuddering, gurgling body seized beneath his gloved hands. The soldier was going to die, no question. But he couldn't just leave her to it, even if it became an exercise in principle, rather than practicality. He was so engrossed in the task, it wasn't until it was far too late that he heard the telltale screech. In his peripheral vision, he saw where it landed, a shining, ugly, messy contraption. He had, at best, 5 seconds. No time to get her moved away from its inevitable destruction. No time at all. Without thought, he threw himself atop her, his right side twisted down to shield what was left of her vital organs, his left side utterly exposed. The seconds ticked by. At best, 3 left.
3, 2, 1.
He jerked into awareness as his whole body seemed to convulse at once. It took him long seconds to even remember how to breath, let alone how to control his heart rate. Gasping breaths echoed in the tiny room, bouncing off permacrete walls.
"Watson! Watson, are you in?" The walls were thin here, unsurprisingly. But, even with that, Captain Jaden Sandeep's voice was unbearably loud. Watson half-heartedly thought about ignoring the summons, but the thought of spending another minute alone in this place, with only his own breath for soundtrack, wracked him with anxiety. Making sure his healing scars were covered by his baggy issued T-shirt, he opened the door. The halogen lights, constantly running, nearly blinded him and Sandeep's silhouette was the only thing he could readily identify.
"Watson, what the hell happened to you?"
Watson refrained from answering with the obvious and instead chose to respond politely: "I'm sorry, I just woke up. What's wrong?"
"Nothing." It was said with a tint of trepidation, as if Sandeep now regretted disturbing. Watson could only imagine how bad he must look after the long trek across the city. "Me and Madison, we were going to go get some chow. Did you want?"
And suddenly, an evening of claustrophobic entrapment seemed almost heavenly compared to the unavoidable press of people, the cacophony of noise, the heaviness of *being*.
"No," he rasped, cursing his elevating heart rate and cold sweat. "No, I'm…gonna stay in."
"Eh, Madison will be disappointed," was the only response as Sandeep walked to his nearby quarters. Watson supposed he was grateful to have been remembered at all. But not very.
He dreamed again that night. Not of war and gunfire, but of faces, monstrous and grotesque, looming over him and when he woke, he almost wept with relief. There wasn't the opportunity, however, as his chime was rung and Watson was made aware of a newer, quieter visitor to his door.
The light was no less blinding when the door slid open this time, but it was no mystery who stood on the other side of it as light reflected off of shockingly blonde hair.
"Madison?" She stood there, tall and beautiful, wringing her hands nervously. The gesture was so unlike her, and Watson was immediately concerned. She had not been in the Medical Arms unit like him, but he had seen her often enough. She had been infantry and retained the strong and energetic character that had made it perfect for her. To see her nearly weeping on his doorstep piqued something cold and hibernating within him.
"Watson? I'm so glad you're in! I can't find anyone and he's gone and I can't go to the COU and," she cut herself off with a sob. Watson didn't wait to pull her inside his tiny room and set her on the small bunk that doubled as the only available seating. He grabbed a bottle of water on the tiny nightstand that he usually used for his caps.
"Here, drink this. Tell me what's wrong," he said as soothingly as possible. She drank messily and handed back the bottle gratefully, her fingers resting for just the barest moment against his own. It was the first non-medical contact he'd had in days, and he felt immeasurably guilty for enjoying it.
"It's Jaden! I mean, Captain Sandeep. He's gone! We, we split up after chow, and he hasn't been back." Watson didn't bother to ask how she knew he hadn't come home; Sandeep and Madison had long been "known".
Taking a deep breath, Watson responded, as patiently as he could with his nerves jangling and his hands twitching, "I wouldn't worry, Maddy. It's only been a few hours. I'm sure he just drank a bit too much bub" (as usual) "and will be back once he's slept it off."
She didn't respond immediately, but the confusion on her face was enough to send his already leaden stomach even further down into his boots.
"Watson," she began in an astonished tone, "It's been almost two days." And Watson would have wept himself if she hadn't been there.
Another two days, gone.
The Links were as ugly and rundown as he had expected them to be as he stepped off the platform and walked two levels down the stationary stairs. Not even the money to make them mobile could be spared here. He descended further down until he was actually underneath the rail, the stanchions like metrically intermittent trees breaking up the skyline, the dingy walkways and railings a graffitied path circumventing them. The underside of the level above formed a darkened, leaking canopy. It was dark here; the taller buildings and platforms blocking out a great deal of the light, even though night would not fall for several more hours. Flickering fluorescent lights (not even halogen or phosphor) illuminated his path somewhat.
Though he knew he should be paying attention, in this part of Seastead particularly, his thoughts scurried to the last few days. It was becoming a familiar condition: falling asleep, only to wake up hours, even days later, starving and anxious. Things he was supposed to remember evaporated from his mind like water in the desert and the slightest of noises was enough to send him into a fury or a panic, depending on whatever whim his mind took.
He wondered, dismally, how much more of his life he was going to lose this way. How many more moments would be squandered in a nervous haze? Worse, when he was discharged (and he would be), how would he hold onto those few stable moments he did have without occupation or appointments to anchor them?
No, he shook himself, that would have to wait. Self-pity would have to wait. *He* would have to wait. Madison was depending on him.
"Watson, he just said he'd be gone for a couple of hours. Said he was going down to the Links." Her face had turned to angered scorn as she said it. Watson knew, they *all* knew, had been warned upon being dumped here after the Medical Carrier had docked in orbit, that the Links was that seedy part of town, that seedy part of every town, albeit with different names, where Shine could be bought. It was a horrendous narcotic: addictive, wasting and indiscriminate. It was exactly the kind of thing a poor, unoccupied soldier would seek out to make the hours pass and the pain fade. Watson had noticed, in the few moments when not wrapped in pitiful self-absorption, the signs of it in the infantry Captain: bloodshot eyes, a yellow pallor, slurred speech and a telltale twitch of the finer motor muscles.
Watson had chosen not to say anything, a choice he now bitterly regretted, not just for Sandeep's sake, but for Madison, who loved Sandeep.
"He goes to a place…uh, Chang Ku's. I tried to call him, but he left his sync in our room to charge. I didn't think it would matter, since he's always been careful!" She broke off, no doubt kicking herself. She shook off the sob, however, and looked at Watson resolutely. "I'm going to go get him, but I don't want to go alone. Please, come with me." It was said with all the desperation of a woman in love. Of *anyone* in love. It was a tone Watson hadn't heard in some time.
"I will not."
"Watson, please!"
"I'll go by myself. You'll stay here." She made to protest, but he cut her off immediately. "Sandeep would want you to wait here. For your sake. Yours and…" Watson stopped there. He wasn't supposed to know about that, despite the couple's lack of discretion. It was one thing to fool around amongst your fellow soldiers. Hell, it was acceptable to carry out long, dedicated relationships if it didn't interfere with the efficiency of the unit. But birth control was taken seriously, and to become pregnant without permission was considered a very serious infraction. "Well…for your sake, you should wait here."
"Thank you!" It was said with sincere gratitude and not a few tears, and without warning she leaned forward to embrace him. Watson couldn't help himself as he remembered what the velvet steel of another's body pressed against him felt like, and the feel of soft hair against his own flesh.
The sound of a siren and a loud argument from very far off snapped him back to himself, and he remonstrated himself for not being more aware. Soldiers no doubt frequented this place often, but with his limp and his ever more willowy frame, he was clearly an easy target. Fingering the sidearm in his coat pocket, he continued on. Prostitutes, in a wider range of ages than Watson liked to think about, began to line the edifices, and he knew he was heading in the right direction.
The holographic advertisements strobed and pulsated with garish colors that, interestingly enough, were not found in nature, but were developed to stimulate certain impulses in the brain. The advertisements for various brothels, drinking establishments, and every other den of depravity flashed constantly, and Watson could feel the spot just above his left eye begin to sharpen into an intense pain. He tried to blink it away and rub it with the heel of his hand, closing his eyes. It took several moments of deep breathing, standing as still as possible, before he could even think about opening his eyes. Thankfully, the lights and holograms seemed less intense. Unfortunately, two large bulky men had decided to take advantage of his momentary incapacitation to flank him on either side. They were huge and of a mixed ethnicity, their age difficult to determine due to the toll narcotics and general hard living had taken on them.
The man on his left rattled off something quick and harsh-sounding in what Watson suspected to be old Russian. It wasn't one of the major languages Watson was familiar with, so he kept his face neutral, communicating he didn't understand, but not indicating that he was particularly bothered by it.
"My friend here understands you've been asking for Chang Ku's?" the other to his right clarified.
"Yes." Watson had little experience with seeking out the dregs, and had little desire to expand upon it. They fed upon the misery and desperation of others. Fuck all if he was going to lie and pretend to be best haul-mates.
"If you're looking for some, you should know he's got the best. But, he doesn't like the idea of strangers asking around for him. Makes him feel a little…nervous."
"I'm not looking for him. Or his stuff. I'm looking for someone. A TA Captain. Sandeep. That familiar?" The effect the name had was instantaneous and much more intense than Watson had anticipated.
The taller of the two, bald and odd-eyes now widely open, delivered a quick punch to Watson's ribs, precise and professional. Clearly, not his first time at this.
But this wasn't Watson's first time, either. Rolling with the punch into the man on his other side, he tackled him to the ground. His leg gave way beneath him, but at least on the ground it couldn't collapse him, and the other man would be at a similar disadvantage. His fists hit flesh and bone and it felt *good.* Blood from the dreg splattered on Watson's face, he could tell, and he didn't even care. It would hardly be the first time somebody else's blood ended up covering him.
The fight, exhilarating as it was, didn't last long. Adrenaline could only take a man so far, and Watson began to feel his strength fading, and the blows being rained down on him by the first thug suddenly began to register. Watson made one last determined effort to turn and pop the guy behind him. Pushing with all his might on his good leg, he whirled around to face him, only to discover that he wasn't there anymore. In his place, was a melted face, merged and distorted. It was hideous, and Watson immediately lost his momentum as it gave way to fear, and then just flopped back to the ground like a heavy bag. Another hard hit to the head rendered him unconscious, and as the dreg's fist flew towards his face, Watson could tell that the monster he had thought he had seen had reverted back to its original form.
When he woke, it was to an unearthly glow that seemed to surround everything. His body shook with spasming tremors while his vision blurred and he knew, with a surprisingly carefree lassitude, that he had at some point been injected with Shine. Thankfully, it hadn't been a large dose, or if it had been, it was beginning to wear off. He was only wearing his BDU's now, his boots and jacket missing. He knew he should feel cold, because the room was just one great metal storage unit, filled from wall to wall with old-fashioned hospital stretchers, using ancient mattress pads on metal frames. On every one, some body lay, about a hundred of them, wearing different types of clothes, of different ages, different social classes. Apparently, Chang Ku's didn't discriminate as to clientele.
Lifting his head, which managed, impossibly, to be both heavy and light at the same, he peered around the unit. The walls at one point had been a metallic gray, but had been covered with dirt and rust over the…months? Years? Who knew when this hole had been first used for this purpose? Looking down at himself, he saw an automatic IV nestled inexpertly in the crook of his arm. The liquid in the capsule was the luminescent yellow that he had been warned about and the thought of it pumping into his system at regular intervals angered him. His other hand shook as he yanked the vial and its attached needle out of his arm. It stung, and a few beads of blood popped up. It was the least of his problems, however, as he swung his head around drunkenly, trying to find an exit. There only seemed to be one--a giant metal slider door on the wall to his left. Several rows of stretchers extended between him and it, the similarity to the hangar bays on a medical carrier filled with corpses ready for disposal making him even more nauseous. The door vacillated between being one, and then two, and then three. But Watson, thinking hard despite the shimmer the world was bathed in and the cold sweat beginning to drip into his eyes, was sure that there was only the one.
Bending his good leg (so very slowly) and pushing off the thin mattress pad with the flat of his foot, he managed a graceless half-roll, half-drop off the side of the bunk. The sudden change in altitude and position was too much for his poor stomach and he vomited weakly. There wasn't much in it, fortunately, and he was able to recover quickly. But the noise had attracted attention. Odd-Eyes, who Watson had not noticed sitting at a table on the far side of the storage bay, must have heard the clatter and retching. Watson could hear his heavy loping footsteps as he approached, clearly making sure his victims were all still subdued.
Watson's useless leg couldn't seem to catch on anything on the metal grated floor, slippery with the filth that leaked down from the other addled users' bunks. Weeks, possibly months, of urine and shit probably stained this floor. The knowledge was enough to make his stomach roil again. But there was no time, because the man was getting closer and in the sparkling haze, he began to look like a sergeant Watson had once seen, his head half-missing and his brains falling out. Watson couldn't hold in his gasp of horror, and was even more shocked to have it shoved back into his mouth as a strong hand slapped across his mouth. Before he could even think of lashing out, a strong arm grabbed him by the waist and dragged him under the bunk he had just vacated.
"Shh," a low voice hissed softly into his ear. Watson immediately began to struggle, but it was a useless posture at this point. He had been without food and water for who knew how long, his movements slowed by narcotic, and this man, whoever he was, had arms like a vice. But Watson wouldn't go down without a fight and his struggles continued, even if their ferocity could not. The man didn't seem to take offense, merely tightened his grip until he was nearly cocooned around Watson, laying atop him to keep him pinned down with his body weight. God help him, but Watson, lost in the tactile sensitivity of the drug, was beginning to grow hard. The new stranger smelled strongly of cigarettes and that indefinable but unforgettable smell of someone who has spent too much time amongst the dregs. But there was something else he could smell, his senses all spiked unnaturally by Shine. It smelled of cologne…but not the cheap stuff. Top shelf. Not at all what he would have expected from the gangsters and thieves who preyed upon the strung-out while they couldn't fight back.
"If you want to get out of here, be still." The voice was quiet, but there was still something in it that made Watson helpless but to obey. It had an edge of confident steel, domineering as any boot camp drill instructor's shouted orders. Sensing Watson's compliance, the hand was removed from his mouth and Watson felt like he could draw breath again, only to hold it all in once more as Odd-Eyes' heavy armored boot came into his vision. The thug approached slowly, as if scanning all bunks without feeling any great hurry or threat. No doubt, he thought that one of his dependents had had a seizure and fallen out of his bunk. Plenty more to replace him, after all.
To Watson's ears, his echoing footsteps were positively deafening, inescapably close. But the stranger didn't seem to notice. He simply crawled over Watson's prostrate frame, his heavy pilot's coveralls rubbing against Watson's thinner clothes with alarmingly delightful friction, to position himself closer to the threshold made by the stretcher's edge. From this angle, Watson could see him better.
The man was tall, taller than Watson, but unlike Watson, he was naturally thin and rangy. His facial features were hard to distinguish in the shadow, but Watson had the impression of clear, piercingly grey eyes as the stranger turned to him, lifted a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, and then winked boldly.
Before Watson could even think of a response to that besides gasping pathetically in the dark, the stranger swung his leg out faster than Watson would have thought possible and swept Odd-Eyes off his feet. He fell on his back with a thoroughly satisfying thud and before he could recover, the tall man had shimmied out from under the bunk in a way that should have looked ridiculous, but didn't. Straddling the gangster, his long thin fingers found their way to some pressure point or other in the neck and shoulders, because Odd-Eyes' whole frame jerked once, twice, and then he fell completely unconscious.
"Come on!" Abruptly turning back to Watson, the stranger reached under the bunk, grabbed a handful of sleeve and pulled Watson out. He stood up, but his bad leg proved treacherous yet again and the only thing that kept him from joining Odd-Eyes on the floor was the sudden fortuitous appearance of the stranger's shoulder under his good arm.
"There you go! Come on, aibou, we have to leave. There'll be more of him, soon." With that, they made a quick half-shuffle, half-run towards the door. They probably looked hysterical, like a three-legged race team at a fete, but Watson was just happy to get away from this hellish place. So happy, that he could only cry out in frustration when Grey-Eyes suddenly stopped at one of the bunks. It was empty, its occupant only recently removed if the indent was any indication. But there was something black and battered underneath, just barely visible from above. Grey-Eyes immediately unslung Watson's arm and dropped, no, threw himself at the ground so abruptly that, for a horrified second (the one where Watson wasn't trying to steady himself again without his makeshift crutch), Watson thought Grey-Eyes himself must be under some influence as well.
"I thought we had to leave!" he hissed in irritation.
"Matte, matte," echoed from under the bunk, as if all the urgency the man had been exuding had suddenly been resolved when, as far as Watson could see, their situation hadn't changed at all. He was about to argue, when Grey-Eyes popped up just as suddenly and enthusiastically as he had dropped. His eyes gleamed with wicked triumph, for all that his mouth was still set in a firm line. In his greasy hand, he held what looked like to Watson an old boot.
"We have what we need. We can go now."
"The boot's going to help us get out of here?"
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."
"Right, I'm being ridiculous." Sarcasm wouldn't help, he knew, but this day (he assumed it was still the same day) had gone to so many different levels of the surreal, he couldn't help himself.
Grey-Eyes shot him an impatient look before snagging his arm again and together, they hop-walked toward the door.
They had very little trouble getting out of the storage unit and to a nearby fire exit, for which Watson was grateful. Clearly the denizens of the place had fire as the least of their worries, and the sliding door was practically rusted shut. Between the two of them, however, they managed to slide it open enough to squeeze out and into an alley. Grey-Eyes seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of the layout of the den, managing to find back rooms and hallways not guarded by dregs or populated by too many users. They weren't stopped at all as they shambled out and away from the place. The alley, dark and refuse-lined as it was, eventually led back to one of the main thoroughfares of the Links, which wasn't any cleaner or brighter, but at least was wider and more-populated.
Turning immediately to thank him, Watson was surprised when Grey-Eyes lifted his hand and motioned for quiet. Being shushed like a kid would normally have rankled, but Watson was so tired of having to figure things out and then becoming frustrated with his own lack of answers. He was actually relieved to just follow along for once.
They continued on for a few more sectors, Watson nervously looking behind them to see if they were being followed and trying to move faster on his leg, which was beginning to regain some feeling as his eyesight began to filter light better and the distinctive glow of Shine faded from all the detritus. After looking back for the fifth time, he felt a gentle reproving smack on his arm.
"Stop looking behind you. And stop running. The best thing right now is to look normal." Watson tried to comply, but being half-dressed with only bits and pieces of his uniform, limping and shaking in a cold sweat next to a tall, shabbily-dressed cargo hauler was as far from normal as he could imagine.
Eventually, Grey-Eyes seemed to feel like it was finally safe to drop the façade and he began to walk faster towards a waiting station for the strata rail. He lifted up his newly acquired boot and began to stare at it. He chuckled for a moment, before turning to Watson.
"I've finally found what I've been looking for. And it's been a fucking hard time of it, too."
"I'm happy for you. And your new boot."
"Sarcasm is an ugly thing," he sniffed, "but it's understandable, considering you don't know the whole story." If this meant he was actually going to *give* the whole story, he certainly didn't make any moves to go through with it. Just kept staring at the damn boot.
"What are you doing?" Watson asked, irritation dangerously coloring his words.
The stranger gave him the side-eye, almost disapprovingly, before coolly responding: "For somebody who almost ended up an addict at best and dead at worst, you're certainly impatient."
And Watson knew he was right; he was being heinously ungrateful. "I'm sorry. I was just curious."
"Well now, that's the magic word." He smiled, slow and only halfway, casting his eyes slyly in Watson's direction again. "No worries, Captain Watson."
"How the hell did you know that?"
"Your name is printed on your prescription caps." Watson's hand reflexively went to his BDU pocket. Sure enough, the flat case of caps could be distinguished through the fabric. He didn't need to pull them out to know that his name and kanji were printed in bold, clear font on the front.
"Apologies. I was looking for somebody specific, and had to look through the pockets of those that were in there when the guards weren't looking. I assume you're not offended." Watson thought he probably should be, but he was alive thanks to this gangly stranger.
"No, no of course I'm not. Although, I wonder why they didn't just take these, too."
"I would guess that they have much more…profitable narcotics to sell than some minor anti-depressants."
"It's pain medication," Watson snapped, and then winced at the defensiveness blatant even to his own ears.
The other man didn't say anything right away, although he appeared mildly taken aback.
"Of course they are." It could have sounded condescending, but it didn't. But nor did it sound convinced.
"Well, you know my name. Who do I owe my life to?"
"Sherlock Holmes, at your service."
It was definitely an unusual name, but he had heard weirder. Around the time Watson was born, it had been the fad throughout several of the Territories to name their children using names from the original languages of Earth: Old English, Farsi, Spanish, 'Huatl, whatever had seemed to tie the constant flotsam of drifters back to some place of origin. Undoubtedly, this Sherlock Holmes' parents had been caught up in this desire to belong as well.
"I'm grateful. Thanks."
Holmes didn't respond, not really. Just gave a quick one-shouldered shrug, a twitch more than anything, but his eyes seemed sincere as he handed Watson a can of something cool and sweet-smelling.
"Here," he said, abruptly, but not unkindly. "Drink this. You'll need it." Watson had been without hydration or nutrition for some time. He finished the can within seconds, much to Holmes' amusement if the elevation of his eyebrow and the angle of his lips were any indication.
"Come on. We should leave here."
"Yes, my hostel…it's in the Labor District…Section 7."
"No, we can't go back there. Your coat is missing, which probably had your key in it."
"Well, I can get another…" Watson began impatiently.
"Yes, but they have yours. Which means that will be the first place they'll look for you." Watson seriously doubted that Link gangsters would bother to look for him at all, but Holmes had already grabbed his bicep (his uninjured one, thank God) and was leading him to the other side of the strata platform, for a West-bound line. "We'll go someplace safe until we can plan our next move."
"No, I can't go. I'm looking for someone. He's still somewhere here. His name's Captain Sandeep. Did you see him in there?" It was stupid to think that Holmes would know him, even if he *had* seen him. But Holmes had the air of a king, despite his shabby Tech's coat and grimy boots; Watson imagined that there was very little that passed on in this city that Holmes didn't notice.
The pause was long and inscrutable, and Holmes' eyes went very hard. They were handsome eyes, now that Watson had a chance to look at them more closely, and his embarrassing erection hovered in his memory with such vividness, that he forced himself to look away. He was actually surprised when Holmes responded.
"No. I haven't." Watson almost pushed the issue, but the strange, tall man had a deeply forbidding look on his face, and in the fluorescent light of the platform with the sounds of angry shouting and warning sirens going off not to far behind them, Watson was afraid to. He was grateful when the strata car finally silently glided in and the doors slid open.
"Come on. We'll figure out where he is later." A protest half-formed, but it got lost in the warm resounding echo of 'we.' He took a seat, stretching out his bad leg on the bench, which Holmes eschewed for standing and peering out intently through the view screens, much to Watson's gratitude. He rested his still-throbbing head against the cool plasma glass and promptly fell asleep.
A heavy hand on his shoulder and a light shake woke Watson some time later.
"Watson-kun. We're almost there, you might want to get ready. Unless you just want to ride around all night," he laughed.
"No, I'm. I'm awake." He attempted to get his leg underneath him, but it took a couple tries. Watson was afraid that Holmes would notice, or worse, take pity on him, but Holmes just continued staring through the view screen, which was currently projecting the current time, weather, and sites of interest at the upcoming stop on the plasma glass medium.
The rail pulled into a station close to the waterfront. The smell of salt and the rush of waves was stronger here. The station itself was cleaner and more well-maintained than any Watson had seen since coming to this planet. He had never been here before, but all the view screen windows had gone opaque and now flashed "Section 5, Waterfront District" as a digitized voice reminded passengers to take all their belongings with them. The warning made Watson laugh; he wasn't even wearing shoes anymore. The shifty-looking pair got off the car and walked for a few minutes in silence. Unlike the silence that had been as much a part of his life as his own skin the last two months, he didn't feel as though this silence was some buffer between him and the rest of the world, but more a thing in common with this Holmes character. He felt at peace.
"You've fought in the Apollan conflict, I see."
"Yes," Watson responded, surprised, both that Holmes had known that and also that Holmes was trying to engage him in small talk. From their conversations so far, Holmes only seemed peripherally aware of (or interested in) what conversations in general required. "How'd you know that?"
"You have a New Hastings accent, which is a relatively cold territory. Unless I'm mistaken. Which I'm not, so it is."
Watson laughed. "It is. But what does that have to do with anything?"
"You have extremely dark skin. For a blonde man with blue eyes, I mean. If this planet is moderate in climate and your home is cold, you must have spent a large amount of time in a hot climate."
"Maybe I like traveling," Watson responded, this game amusing enough.
"You're wearing a uniform…well, parts of it, anyway. That and your, uh…" Holmes gestured at his neck before flinging his hand carelessly in the direction of Watson's own. His hand reflexively went to his own throat, surprisingly relieved to still have his dogtags, at least.
"So it stands to reason you're a) in the military and b) have been stationed planetside and recently exposed to the elements. New Apolla is the only colony struggling from military tension and Army occupation. Currently, anyway. The TA isn't generally welcome planetside, otherwise. I imagine you would have been posted on a carrier ship if you hadn't been involved."
"You've got good eyes."
"And a brilliant mind, but that's not really required here." It was said so unapologetically, as if it were a given truth and, therefore, not given any inflection, either of self-importance or self-shame. Watson couldn't help but be amused. It was actually endearing; like a too-serious child or a small dog barking at one twice its size.
"It's not?"
"No. Anyone who bothered to look can see you've recently been injured. Quite seriously, since you're practically dragging your whole left side. You've lost weight suddenly, as the dark circles under your eyes indicate. You don't strike me as a crash dieter, so it probably was caused by some trauma that prevented you from eating consistently. Your caps packet was VetMed-issued, so it obviously it was in the line of duty."
Holmes stopped talking, apparently feeling enough was said. Watson didn't like the naked feeling that had suddenly awoken and couldn't think of anything to respond with as Holmes' words "…anyone who bothered to look…" echoed in his mind. He concentrated distantly on putting one foot in front of the other.
It both pained and balmed Watson to realize that this grey-eyed stranger was the first person in a long time that *had* bothered to look.
It was only a ten minute walk from the station to an older, but very clean, clump of buildings that were literally built on the water. Holmes headed directly toward one situated at the end of a long pier. It was late at night now, and the darkness of the sky as it rested and merged with the inky blackness of the ocean should have been disconcerting, but it actually reminded Watson of the stygian horizons of space, and it was comforting in its familiarity.
Holmes walked up to the door of the little house, 221B. Watson could only imagine that the larger house situated further up the metal dock was 221A.
"Come on in. You look like you could use a rest."
It took Watson a few seconds longer to climb the short steps into the house, but in that time Holmes seemed to have regained his vigor, because he was now wandering about the house at top speed, turning on lights with voice commands and motion sensors, while also shouting some vague welcome back at Watson.
This Sherlock Holmes character was clearly a slob. Reference pads and plastic writing sheets were littered over every surface. Even some old clothes littered the floor. Watson found himself drawn to one area in particular. The house, like most modern buildings on this planet, was built from plastisteel and two-way Glasstech. From the outside, the walls looked like extremely reflective glass and were almost impossible to see through. On the inside, however, the residents could either look out through perfectly transparent glass, or make the entire wall opaque to block out the light. It was also designed to project holographic screens on the glass that were controlled by touch. Holmes had clearly put this to good use; constantly moving and shifting on a huge section of wall facing out towards the ocean was: a scrolling map of an entire section of Seastead with a handful of pulsating beacons indicating specific spots, interchanging news articles from various e-publications going back some months, and Ident photos of several individuals, each one highly suspect-looking. In some sections, the nano-wiring had clearly given out due to abuse or overuse, because it could no longer depict any signals or images. So Holmes had simply *taped* bits and pieces of the transparent writing sheets to the sections of wall where he could no longer upload anything. The whole effect was a mosaic of crazy; clearly all the elements of some great strategy, but Watson was damned if he could figure out what it was.
"Holmes? What is this?"
There was no response. Watson was so absorbed in the display, he hadn't notice that Holmes had disappeared upstairs.
All of a sudden, a scraping sound preceded a large crash by the entrance. The floor plan, with the exception of the upstairs, was entirely open even with the minimalist furniture, and if there were an intruder, there was no way Watson wouldn't be seen. Could they possibly have been followed here? Watson reached for his coat pocket, only to realize, far, far too late, that they had taken his coat, the pocket of which had held his sidearm. He mourned its loss, since it had sentimental value, but even more so at that very moment, as he stood there completely defenseless. All he could do was stand there and wait, hoping that he wouldn't be shot on sight, and that Holmes would realize quicker than he had that there was something not right.