AN) Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me. If you spot any error, whether it be in the grammar or content, please feel free to point it out.
Kazakhstan, 15th June, 2010
Mycroft called Sherlock at a quarter to five in the morning, correctly anticipating that his brother would not be asleep. Sherlock contemplated not answering his phone, but was so lacking in other things to alleviate his boredom that there really was nothing else for it.
He sighed and brought the phone to his ear. "Yes, yes, what is it now?"
There was a huff of laughter in response. The fat bastard undoubtedly saw through Sherlock's pretence at annoyance.
"I merely wished to bid you a good trip, dear brother. Getting excited yet?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and swept the blankets away from his legs, rolling into an upright position. He padded to the ensuite and got himself a glass of water.
Pale tendrils of sunlight were beginning to wind themselves under the windowpane, creeping sleepily across the bathroom floor. Sherlock put his feet in the centre of a patch of light and perched on the edge of the bathtub.
"Never mind me, Mycroft. What kind of state is mummy in? Presuming she knows we're launching today." Sherlock took another sip of his water, bored of the conversation already.
Mycroft sighed, a soft exhale of breath in Sherlock's ear. "Of course she is aware it's today. She rather chooses to avoid talking about it, I'm afraid. Still wants to believe you're safe and sound in London, where you'd be right within her grasp should she want you."
Sherlock closed his eyes. Stupid woman. She would never be content until both her children were settled and living nearby, ready to come running to her assistance and attend family functions whenever she gave the signal.
Instead, she'd raised two sons who were at their happiest defying her wishes; one perpetually abroad at summit meetings and conferences, the other suspended 370km above her reach.
"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured, walking back into his bedroom and setting his glass down on the bedside table. "I'll give her a call on Tuesday night, then. See if that will wake her up a little."
"Improbable."
"I know."
There was a moment or two of silence, which was about as much as the Holmes' brothers were capable of allowing. Sherlock wondered briefly which government Mycroft was pestering now, and if he would bother watching the launch.
He thought these things, but didn't voice them. Sentiment. Something about pre-launches always seemed to render him more susceptible to it.
Mycroft, on his end, appeared to sense this. Sherlock was quietly grateful.
"I'll see you eventually, then, Sherlock. Do enjoy yourself. I'll keep Mummy at bay until your return."
"Good luck."
"Isn't that what I should be saying to you?"
Sherlock's mouth curved in a tiny smile, which lasted a second or two before it slipped away and his face resettled into its usual impassivity.
"Don't bother trying to get in touch with me, I shall be very much too busy. Goodbye, Mycroft."
He snapped his phone shut and tossed it onto his bed, glancing at the clock.
04:49. Just another few hours, and then in three more days he could be back where he operated at his best: floating in his lab, immersed in the work he loved.
T-Minus 11,460 seconds….
Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
16th June, 2010
Murray slammed his plate down next to John's and clattered into the seat beside him, already moaning about something or other. The regulars at the table, more than accustomed to his whinge fests, knew better than to try to slow the steady stream of complaints. It was easier for everybody to just let him get it off his chest.
"…and Miller, that fucker, wouldn't know a tactical advantage if it bit him in the arse anyway, so it's fucking rich of him to be dishing out orders like he's-"
"Bill, for Christ's sake!" John laughed. "There's only so much of your whining we can take, alright? Calm down a little."
Murray huffed and tore his slice of bread apart savagely before dunking it in his soup. Diva.
John polished off his own supper quickly. He'd been on a scouting trip to the nearest village, and was sufficiently knackered to be immune to the muggy night time heat.
He dropped his spoon into the empty bowl and leaned back in his seat, surveying the Mess. Aside from his own group of five, there were about twenty other officers scattered at different tables around the hall. From the wearied expressions on some of them, John could tell that they'd not had the best day of their lives.
He checked his watch; he needed to call Harry today at some point, however little he wanted to.
There was still plenty of time for that though. No sense doing now what could be put off until later. Much, much later.
Murray was beginning to grumble into his soup again. John rolled his eyes and turned in his seat to watch the TV set in the corner. CBS or some such news channel was on. It looked like he was just catching the end of it, though.
"And finally, the Soyuz TMA-19 rocket launched this morning from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan, carrying three more astronauts who are set to join the crew already on board the Station. At five thirty-five P.M local time, the Soyuz began its journey out of Earth's orbit and is on course for the International Space Station.
On board the spacecraft are Commander Fyodor Yurchikhin, NASA astronaut Shannon Walker, and European Space Agency ISS veteran, Sherlock Holmes. They are due to reach the Station in two days."
A hand crept over John's arm, trying to be stealthy. He looked down; his uneaten bread roll lay just out of reach of the straining fingers.
"How about asking next time, moron." John grinned, and threw the roll at Bill's laughing face.
19th June, on board the International Space Station
Sherlock Holmes unstrapped himself from his bed without a noise of complaint, unlike his crewmates. His quarters were in Harmony, where he shared living space with the American crewmembers. They each had their own private booth, though, so he was saved the tedium of hearing their daily early-morning grumblings. God knows how he would manage to work with them every day if that were the case.
He got himself a sliver of toothpaste and brushed his teeth, swallowing it quickly as he made his way to Unity for another soggy breakfast of preserved food. He passed Skvortsov on his way, who waved at him and floated on towards the bathroom.
Hasn't slept well due to recurring nightmares about mother's failing health and son's abysmal exam results. Plans on having apple and slice of corned beef for breakfast. Is hoping to finalize work on crystallization of cooling alloys experiment by this evening. Wants to patch phone call through to family this evening.
Sherlock breathed out a sigh as he pulled himself through the door to Unity, where the dreaded galley was waiting for him to heat up yet another god-awful bag of leek soup. The only thing that made him smile in the face of such a prospect was the thought of settling down, finally, to work.
John slid his arms into his jacket sleeves, fishing for the keys to his office. It was no use putting his head around Sarah's door to say goodbye, as she was probably dealing with that mother and her spoilt brat of a son John had heard squawking in the waiting room. He would see Sarah tomorrow morning in any case.
He pulled out his phone and checked it. There was one missed call from Greg. He hit the return button and put the phone to his ear, eyes scanning the street for an empty cab.
"Lestrade."
"Hi Greg, it's John."
"John! Glad I could get hold of you, mate. You just leaving the clinic, then?"
John waved his arm at a passing taxi, frowning when it drove on. "I am, yeah. Why, are you coming to pick me up?"
Greg chuckled. John had been friends with Gregory Lestrade for a little over a month now. They had met when Greg, chasing a suspect, had had his right shoulder dislocated just outside John's flat. John had come out and calmly popped the joint back into place before getting Greg a cup of tea while they waited for police backup to arrive.
Since then, they'd gotten along like a house on fire.
"Sure, if you need a lift. I was actually thinking about a pint. The wife's away in Dorchester for some spa thing with her league of minions, so Connor and I have the house to ourselves. Fancy coming around?"
John grinned to himself. "You had me at pint, mate. I'll be waiting down by the Criterion."
"Brilliant. Be there in ten."
Greg arrived bang on time and John slid into the front seat of the familiar silver Honda. Lestrade handed him a coffee and they drove on, chatting about their respective days at work. John took particular pleasure in telling Lestrade about the case of projectile vomiting he'd treated, knowing Greg was weirdly squeamish about such things for someone who regularly visited crime scenes to earn a living.
Greg's son, Connor, opened the front door for them and immediately launched himself into John's middle.
"Ooof" John grunted, lifting the boy up and swinging him around a bit before depositing him back on the ground. Connor was a sweet kid. John had first met him when Greg and his wife were out on a trip to Kerry in a last-ditch attempt to salvage their relationship. John had been asked to babysit for the weekend, and from then on, Connor adored him. John was rather fond of him too.
"How we doing, Connor? Have you been good?" John smiled. Greg had finished hugging Connor, who returned his attention to his favourite babysitter. John picked him up and carried him into Greg's kitchen, Lestrade following behind.
"Yup. Can I show you something? It's a really cool video I found on the internet."
"Sure, kiddo." John allowed himself to be led into the living room and pushed onto the sofa. Connor clambered up beside him and retrieved a laptop from the other end of the couch, dropping it carelessly onto John's lap.
Greg's voice drifted in from the other room. "You're going to show John another space video, aren't you?"
"Yeah, so?" His voice was comically defensive, and John had to work hard to suppress a smile.
He nudged Connor. "Go on, I want to see it."
Connor beamed at him, lifting an eyebrow smugly at his father, who had just appeared to hand John his pint. Lestrade rolled his eyes and John grinned.
Connor finished loading up his video and flicked it on to full screen, simultaneously turning up the volume.
An image of the NASA logo shimmered into view, before dissolving quietly into the background.
Welcome to the International Space Station
"The International Space Station is a microgravity research laboratory circling Earth in low-orbit. It has been continually inhabited for over twelve years, and carries a crew of up to six astronauts at any one time. Its construction was a collaborative effort between several nations, most notably the United States and…"
The short video opened with a shot of the Station visible from earth, a slow-moving glint of light sliding down the night sky. The narrator began explaining the process by which the Station had become an idea, and then a design, before plunging into the early years of its construction. John tuned out much of it, to be honest; after about the first thirty seconds, it had slipped into scientific jargon miles beyond his own comprehension, so he contented himself with looking at the images.
The video quickly ran through the astronaut selection program, showing clips of those nauseating-looking machines they used to toss them around in during training.
Next, the video panned around the exterior of the Station, describing each relevant part's role. Even to John's inexpert eye, it really was a marvel; how on Earth (pun unintentional) had they even begun to plan it out?
The interior of the Station was even more complex. To John, everything looked cramped and claustrophobic, though he supposed it was probably a lot bigger to those inside it. Naturally, every astronaut the camera passed was zooming about easily, as if being in a microgravity environment was his or her native habitat.
At this point, the video was handed over to the Expedition Commander, a man who introduced himself as Scott Kelly. He was soon keeping up a regular stream of long words and scientific terms, of which John quickly lost the gist.
Kelly was in the midst of demonstrating how the crew ate when another man pulled himself out from a padded tunnel behind him. The newcomer seemed startlingly young, with a pale delicate face and dark curled hair, and by his appearance seemed more suited to modelling studios than a science lab in space.
Kelly turned to look at him, wearing a mock frown.
"Do you mind?"
The young man, unrepentant for disrupting the proceedings, raised an eyebrow and floated out of the camera's field of vision until only one ankle could be seen. He hooked his foot under a small rail attached to the wall; this seemed to act as an anchor of sorts.
"That was one of my colleagues. The only Brit currently serving on board the ISS, actually, and hard to catch a glimpse of even when living in the same quarters. I hope you all savoured that rare footage of the lesser-spotted Science Officer." Kelly continued.
There was a muttered response off-camera, clearly from the man in question, which made Kelly burst into laughter.
"And don't we all know it, Sherlock." He turned his attention back to the camera and smiled. 'Now, to show you where we all sleep!"
The video ended abruptly and John, who had unwittingly become absorbed in the proceedings, was as much startled as Connor.
"That's it for today, chap. You have homework that needs doing." Lestrade grinned, swinging the laptop plug from one hand.
Connor growled, but obeyed his father without further protest. John said goodnight to the boy and watched him trudge up the stairs after his dad, making a mental note to find that video on YouTube and watch the rest of it.
He'd never had much interest in space travel before; it had seemed so many miles above his own comprehension that he had deemed it a lost cause and ignored it almost entirely. But he couldn't deny that the idea of it was beginning to intrigue him. He would have to read up on it a little whenever he had some free time.
Connor was being shepherded to Lestrade's study, where he had the unenviable task of maths homework waiting for him. John waited for Greg to come back downstairs, sipping patiently at his drink.
"Sorry about that. Don't know where he picked it up, but at least it's educational, I suppose." Greg said, sinking into his seat with a sigh of relief. Clearly they'd both had the same sort of day.
"No problem. God, what a weird life those people must lead."
"Yeah."
Greg stared into his pint with a thoughtful frown, clearly pondering what John himself was. However, never let it be said that Gregory Lestrade allowed such contemplative thoughts to drag him down. After a moment or two, his face cleared and he shrugged, mouth stretching into a grin.
"So I've had it on good authority that you played rugby in Uni. Any interest in getting back into the game again?"
He was kneeling over Jenkins, brushing dust and sand from his face with trembling fingers. The boy (19 years old, Christ) was bleeding from a shrapnel wound to the side. Shards of glass, splintered and knife-sharp, stood embedded in his skin like miniature soldiers. He couldn't risk trying to remove them.
Someone was calling him, the voice carrying over the roar of gunfire and muffled boom of explosions. He thought it might be Reilly, the medic assigned to assist him in the field. Couldn't turn around to be sure. Reilly would have to come to him.
"Jenkins?" he murmured. Raised his voice. "Jenkins?!"
There was a groan, but nothing further. Blood seeped out from the boy's side like sap from a broken tree and pooled around John's knees. It was warm.
"Sir? Captain?" Reilly again.
John whirled. "What?"
"Our truck's been slammed by a rocket missile. Freddie and Gerard are in there."
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. He turned back to the Private.
Jenkins' eyes had rolled back in their sockets. He was dead, God help him, and John made a soft whining sound without meaning to, but staggered upright anyway. On your feet, soldier, on your feet.
Outside, their battered old truck was burning. More glass, glass everywhere, glittering on the dusty ground like sugar. John tread over it carefully, gazing at the towering flames with sorrowful eyes.
Freddie and Gerard were in there. He could see them. Gerard was lying slumped over the console, and at his side, Freddie's skin slipped from him in the searing heat and dropped from his arms like wallpaper.
John was watching this, overwhelmed, when the bullet shredded its way into his shoulder. There was a flare of pain, like a rocket booster sizzling away at him.
He slid sideways, landing softly in the sand. Blood pooled under his cheek, and it was warm. A single frantic prayer rolled up through his throat and fled his mouth.
Here we go. Oh fuck, oh please, God, let me live.
John met Lestrade at the field at a quarter to three. Several of his mates were already there, laughing and stretching and pouncing on each other playfully like overgrown puppies. He watched them in bewildered amusement.
After introductions were made and John was given the stamp of approval by the other men, the game began. Greg was on John's team, and was an efficient and determined player. He could be slightly clumsy in the scrums and couldn't handle line-outs for his life, but nevertheless he powered down the field like a small bull.
By half-time, they were all out of breath and panting. One of the lads had a twisted ankle, and nearly everyone had sustained a cut or two. Nothing serious.
Greg clapped John on the back. "Nice going, John. Holy shit. You definitely have played this before, haven't you?"
John chuckled. "Captain of the school team for two years, I'll have you know. And I'm usually better than this, but I… didn't sleep much last night."
His blood, which had been pulsing happily up until that moment, slowed and cooled at the memory of the latest nightmare. Christ, that had been something. One of the worst yet.
Greg was looking at him suspiciously. "For the good reason, or a bad one?"
"Never mind." John sighed, dabbing blood from his cheek. "We're starting again. Come on."
They won the match. After much congratulatory slapping and hooting, the men dispersed and John followed Greg to his car.
On the way back to John's flat, they chatted about the game, and the sport in general. John laughed and smiled when the circumstances demanded it, but inside his head Freddie Danner's skin melted away again and again and again, and pulsating through all of it was the throb of explosions and the whine of Jenkins' last breath.
He sighed, slipping down into Greg's comfortable leather seats. He could already tell what kind of night he was going to have.
Greg dropped him off at the corner of the street and John waved him off, promising to visit Conner sometime during the weekend.
As soon as the car had disappeared, John shouldered open the front door and climbed the stairs to his flat. His breath curled out of him like wisps of smoke.
I need to get out of here.
Freezing on the last step, he suddenly turned tail and jogged back the way he'd come.
Once he was outside again in the fresh air, he limped down the street aimlessly. His mind felt like it was on fire. His hand, hidden in his pocket, trembled pathetically, no matter how much he tried to clench it.
He couldn't help feeling that everything was just this far from falling apart entirely, and there was nothing he could do to slow the inevitable.
He ended up in Regent's Park. John wandered around for about half an hour, looking around himself with a confused hesitance one would expect to find in a dog that had run away from home, and didn't know where it was or what it should do.
God. What a mess everything was.
"John?! John Watson?"
He started, swivelling warily around to find the voice. He was greeted by a plump, terribly dressed man, grinning at him and smiling like he expected John to be as delighted as he was.
"It's me, Stamford, Mike Stamford. We trained together at Bart's?"
Oh. Oh! John smiled genuinely this time, transferring his cane to his left hand in order to greet Mike properly. Wow. He's really let himself go. NO. Stop it, that's a horrible thought.
"Yeah, I know, I got fat." Mike grinned, and John suddenly remembered why he'd been friends with Mike in the first place.
"Last I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at! What happened?"
John's smile turned thin, and he shrugged. "I got shot."
It was entertaining to watch how quickly the grin dropped from Mike's face.
John followed Mike quietly into the lab at St Bart's. It was like Mike had said – John barely recognised it as the same dingy, cluttered little room he had worked in for years when he was studying for his doctorate. Everything was sleek and capable-looking, and John couldn't help but feel a little out of place just standing there, with his cane in one hand and the other curled at his side to hide the shaking.
Mike was looking at him expectantly, so John hummed and said, "A bit different from my day."
He cringed at the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He sounded like his old teacher, who'd grumbled at everything and used that phrase every time he could.
Mike chuckled in agreement, and opened his mouth to say more when he was interrupted by the tall man John had seen working on the other side of the room.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
Mike patted down his pockets quickly. "Sorry, mate. It's in my coat."
The stranger didn't appear too disheartened, but John rummaged around until he found his own phone anyway and held it out.
"Here, take mine."
The man raised his head, glancing at John for the first time. His eyes were creepily devoid of colour, in the same way John imagined a ghost's eyes would look.
"Oh," he said, drawing himself to his full height and gliding over to John. "Thank you."
John nodded politely and let the man take the phone from his hand. He watched him slip the device open and begin typing skilfully on it, and almost missed it entirely when the stranger spoke again.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He didn't look up from the screen of John's phone.
John frowned. He must have misheard.
"Sorry?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He stared at John again for a brief moment. The intensity of his gaze was so unsettling that John had to turn his away.
"Afghanistan," he murmured. "Sorry, how did you…?"
The door to the lab opened and the stranger handed John back his phone, accepting a cup of coffee from a young woman who had just entered the room. He loped back to the lab bench, casually insulting the girl's appearance, but John got the impression that the malice wasn't intentional. Perhaps Asperger's…?
"How do you feel about the violin?"
Wait, the man was still talking to him? What on Earth was all this about? "I'm sorry, what?"
The man sounded almost bored by the whole conversation. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, and occasionally I will be absent for anything from three to six months at a time. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
Here he looked up from his work again and gave John a false grin.
At a loss for anything else to do, John glanced at Mike and said, "So what, you… told him about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then who said anything about flatmates?"
The man got up, sliding his arms into a long black coat and tying a scarf around his neck. "I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, straight after lunch, with an old friend who's clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."
John was beyond the realms of confusion by this point. "Yes, how did you know about Afghanistan?"
"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there, tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He checked his phone before slipping it into his pocket. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
With that, he strode past John and went to leave the room. It didn't seem to occur to him that he'd made no sense whatsoever, and John remembered at the last second to point this out.
"Is that it?"
The man whirled back around, black coat swishing at his calves. "Is that… what?"
"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?"
The odd stranger smiled at Mike, as if sharing a joke about John's stupidity in not following the situation.
"Problem?"
For a moment John was so stunned that he couldn't formulate a response. Was this man serious? How could this be considered standard procedure by anyone?
"We don't know a thing about each other," he said, struggling to keep the astonishment from his voice. "I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
The man's smile slipped away, as if his face had forgotten how to make one. He opened his mouth, and spoke.
AN) Thank you very much for reading! As always, review if the urge takes you. :)