A/N: Hello! This story does not work out with Star Trek canon but I did my best to make it as similar to the canon as possible. I've only seen the JJ Abrams Star Trek movies but I did do my research ;) Remember: reviews are ALWAYS appreciated, even when they aren't positive! The next chapter will be posted soon, and I hope you enjoy it! :)

'Cause we lost it all
Nothing lasts forever
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect
Now it's just too late
And we can't go back
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect

-Simple Plan

To whomever opened this cryo-box,

First big mistake. You should have never opened this box; you should have let Khan drift through space, God why did you even think he was there in the first place?
Anyways, I'm not going to blame you for having done this. I was no better. In fact I am writing this now, though I have no reason to believe it'll be seen by someone who can read English, let alone even be found.

The idea was inviting, of course. But why me? Stupid question, I knew exactly why me. Because I am the Sherlock Holmes. I don't mean to brag (or yes, I do), but I am probably one of the most brilliant minds of the present time. It isn't surprising that they'd pick me for their experimental human-mutants. But there had to be a catch to this. There was always a catch. Certainly when you have to give a DNA sample of yourself to some secret governmental organization. And even more certainly when this organization is so insane it thinks it could create super-humans. Then again, it was worth a shot. Then again, what did I care?
I didn't want recognition (we all know where that leads...) I just wanted a case. All I wanted was a stupid case and instead they sent some well-dressed men with sunglasses here, boring me with their many Health And Safety rules and rambling about The People Of Tomorrow as if it actually mattered to me whether the world blew up once I was gone. It's bound to happen anyway, Superhumans or not. Well in a way I did care, but admitting this just made me try to convince myself of the opposite. I pursed my lips as the two men standing opposite me, behind the coffee table of 221B, awaited my answer with seemingly growing impatience. It irritated me. As if no "normal" person would take a while to decide whether they wanted desperate scientists to play around with their gene codes. Idiots.
I was about to say no, when I remembered the pay for it all: £1500. A lot of money for one small sample. Although I guess anyone mentally-impaired enough to aspire human perfection would have a lot of money to waste. Money is one of those things that go into the grey-zone of my caring. It's not that I especially like it but I certainly never mind it. John would be happy about it. I was pretty sure John would tell me not to do this, were he here, but secretly regret having turned down so much money. So I accepted, of course.

After all what was the worst that could happen?

Surprisingly, the entire process only took a couple seconds. I thought they would ask for an appointment or something of the sort, but as soon as I signed the forty-page contract they pulled out a syringe, took a probe of my blood and pulled one of my hairs out. Left alone in my flat, I sat on the armchair rethinking what I'd just done. Would The People Of Tomorrow really be better? Better at everything? Part of it being my work? I have to admit, the thought did give me a sort of pride at the time. I liked the idea that the world would be a better place because of me, even after my death. You can be as cold and emotionless as I, and still like doing good if it doesn't involve getting emotionally attached. That's why I love my job.

John got home an hour or so later while I was playing "The Four Seasons" by Vivaldi on my violin. I didn't tell him what had happened. I don't know why. I guess it's just because he didn't specifically ask "Hey, Sherlock, did, by any chance, some odd governmental organization swing by the flat and take a DNA probe of you?" He didn't interrupt my playing because he knew I disliked that. I've always appreciated that about John. However judgmental I get about him and his stupid, ignorant ways (see what I mean?), he only rarely refrained to do the same. I smiled as the end of the winter neared and I finished the forty-minute-long piece. He continued not to talk to me. I guess it's because usually I play the violin when I'm thinking. Honestly, I wished for him to talk to me then. Sometimes I forget how sad and lonely my life can get. These are the thoughts I have always hated myself for having. I wondered if the potential Superhumans, who would grow from my genetic code, would hate themselves, too, when they got sentimental. Then I wondered whether that was a good or bad thing. Also the entire situation started to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. Suddenly the idea of someone else sharing my intelligence with me gave me an odd feeling. The one thing that made me special was my mind. And if these scientists did succeed, they would just makes as many photocopies of me as they wanted. Although, come to think of it, would that also in a way make me immortal? No, it wouldn't. It couldn't. They would all just be poor copies of me. Less than that. The HGMA was collecting gene samples from hundreds, maybe thousands of "superior" beings. But in a way, maybe I could live forever. In the form of many 0s and 1s on a computer's hard drive. In the end I felt a little relieved that, even though it would inevitably be washed away by the always approaching tides of oblivion, I had left some kind of mark on this planet that had nothing to do with police work and was definitely not negative. It was a nice feeling.

I put down my violin and walked into the kitchen to join and converse with John, still leaving out the significant detail about what had happened that morning. It didn't bother either of us so what was the problem with it?