"Keep her steady, Anderson."
"You don't need to tell me. I know what to do."
Greg Lestrade stood behind his pilot, Philip Anderson, as they flew silently through the wreckage in their bullet shaped spaceship. Shreds of metal drifted past them. Lestrade watched as one traveled up the windshield, leaning back his head until the shrapnel hit part of his spaceship and spiraled off in a different direction. It was eerily silent, not just because they were in space, but because their interments were not picking up any readings. Sally Donovan, Lestrade's first mate, seemed to realize this.
"Anderson, how far do you have your radar set to?"
He glanced at one of the dials on the dashboard. "A three mile radius."
They fell silent again, watching the decimated spaceship trickle by.
"Three miles and no one else here?" Donovan sighed.
They were getting closer to the origin of the explosion now. Different kinds of junk filtered by them now. Part of a chair floated by along with the door to a refrigerator.
"Firefly class."
The three people spun their heads around. Leaning up against the doorway was a man with dark curly hair and a long black coat.
"Sherlock! How long have you been standing there?" Donovan demanded. She would not admit it, but she had jumped violently when Sherlock had spoken.
Sherlock gave a sideways smile. He had seen her jump. "Just a few minutes," he replied. "You really should be a bit more aware of your surroundings. Good thing you aren't the pilot, though if you were it wouldn't make much difference."
"Do you have something you want to say?" Lestrade asked, running his fingers through his graying hair.
"Yes, of course I do." He walked forward, standing as far forward as the compact space allowed him, squishing up between Anderson and the dashboard. Anderson made a noise that was the combination of disgust and annoyance, leaning to the right to see around the tall man.
Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth across the scene before him. He took a breath, and began.
"This wasn't an explosion, like it was reported. See that shrapnel there?" He pointed a little to the left. "It clearly has scratches on the anterior. And it looks pulled, not pushed open. Something forced the panel off. There, those plates. If there was an explosion, the location of the kitchen in regards to the engine, where the explosion most likely took place, should be smashed to pieces. They're whole. These books we're about to pass. In an explosion they'd be burnt, but they're not. It was not an accident that this ship was damaged. It was planned. Premeditated."
"How could you know that-" Anderson scoffed, but was cut short. Just then the ship came into view. A hole was torn in the side, bits of debris still clung to the jagged cuts.
"He never fails," Lestrade murmured.
Another man walked onto the bridge. "How's it going?" He asked.
"Brilliantly John, I just discovered that the ship didn't explode but was pulled open, causing the interior to be sucked out into the vacuum of space." Sherlock replied, almost gleefully.
"Uh huh, I see. Well, uh, what's the plan?"
"Figure out who or what did this," Lestrade stated.
"Captain, we can see the name of the ship," Anderson spoke up.
"What is it?"
"It looks like…" Anderson tried to peer through the space junk.
"Serenity," Sherlock breathed.
"No…" A look of dread settled on John's face.
"What? Do you know that ship?" Donovan asked.
"I fought alongside the captain in the Valley of Serenity," John nearly whispered.
"So it's an Independence ship," Anderson sneered.
"Hey, good people live on that ship," John replied, keeping his voice level.
"You mean lived," Donovan corrected. "I don't know anyone who could live through that."
"You don't know Captain Reynolds."