The research ship Red Beard was vast. Not vast like a galaxy or even a star system, of course. But pretty damn big. Picture an average 20th century metropolis, cut it into roughly 100 pieces and stick those on top of each other. Wrap it all in a metre thick shell of hardened steel. And then paint the whole thing red.

It was also completely silent.

If you went down to the lower decks and put your ear to the walls surrounding the giant propulsion core, you might be able to detect a subtle hum. If you held your breath. Maybe.

And in one corridor on deck 42, a door was malfunctioning and would slide open or closed every half hour or so with a small woosh.

But there were no human sounds on the ship. And there hadn't been for a very, very long time.

Until today.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and gave the door to the stasis chamber an experimental push. There was a sharp hiss followed by a sound not unlike a sigh. The door swung open and Sherlock stepped out, reaching up to ruffle his hair before heading down the empty corridor.

"Ah, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice sounded. "I trust you enjoyed your prolonged beauty sleep."

Sherlock spun around, but there was no one there. He smiled and sighed. "Ah, brother dear. Spying on me as usual? Or couldn't you be bothered to come down here and greet me yourself?"

"It is not a question of being bothered," Mycroft answered. "Look around and make a deduction."

Reluctantly, Sherlock did as his brother asked. "Nobody is here to greet me. That's hardly standard protocol. So something must be going on, keeping everybody busy." He shrugged and set off, heading for the messroom. "Another celebration? Did someone make a breakthrough? Or did you perhaps get another promotion? What did they make you this time? God Almighty?"

Mycroft let out a long sigh. "I suppose you could say I have been promoted. Though not to God. And there has been no celebration."

"I'm not surprised. I doubt there is anyone left on this ship still capable of feeling anything but faint annoyance at your… 'glorious career'..." Sherlock stopped in the door to the mess and looked around. It was completely empty. But not empty like in the morning when the cleaning system had put everything neatly ready for the first early risers. This was a cluttered kind of empty. Chairs were left scattered throughout the room, quite a few of them tipped over. Trays, plates and cups were still on the tables or, in a few cases, under them. All in all, it looked like the room had been left in a hurry in the middle of dinner.

Except for one odd detail: there was not a single scrap of food to be seen.

Sherlock studied the room, his pale eyes seeming to take in every single detail. He frowned.

"Everybody's dead," he said slowly.

"I knew you'd get there eventually," Mycroft said. "Though it seems that suspended animation has made you even slower than you already were. Or perhaps my memory failed me…"

Sherlock scoffed and strode across the room, pausing to examine various things more closely, before reaching the terminal by the far wall. He tapped a few buttons, then stepped back, wrinkling his nose in disgust as his brother's seemingly disembodied head appeared on the screen.

"I have suspended your access to the log," the head said, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I feel that the mental exercise will do you some good. Everybody's dead. Would you care to elaborate?"

"There are no bodies," Sherlock said. "So although violence happened here, they died somewhere else."

"Or?" Mycroft prompted.

"Or…" Sherlock shot the screen a filthy look. "Or they died here and the bodies were removed. But that seems unlikely since there are no traces of the bodies at all. The room could, of course, have been cleaned afterwards, but then why not put it back in order as well? Why remove the bodies but leave all the other evidence? That does not make sense. So…" He spun around, giving the room another glance. "It was a senseless act. It was not planned violence and the bodies were not moved, they were… dissolved… destroyed… They were…" His eyes widened. "Oh… They were eaten!"

"Very good," Mycroft said. "You will have to imagine my applause, as I am not currently capable of using my hands. Now you already know the next question: what kind of creatures would eat both the crew's dead bodies and their food?"

"Scavengers," Sherlock said immediately. "Carrion eaters. Since none are known in this sector, I suppose Red Beard either came across a new species or ran into a migrating group."

"We didn't exactly come across them," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned to the screen again, this time with an accusatory stare. "Are you saying that someone on the ship made whatever did this? That it was an experiment that got out of hand?"

"It could explain all the facts," Mycroft answered.

"So could the log," Sherlock snapped. "Why won't you let me see it?"

"Because there is something, or rather someone, I need you to see first."

Sherlock frowned. "So there are survivors? Other than us?"

"Us?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, an abrupt clattering sounded from the corridor. "Who's there?" he called, darting across the mess hall and through the door. There he stopped abruptly, staring at the shorter, blond man who was beaming up at him.

"Hello!" the man said brightly, thrusting his right hand at Sherlock to shake, while the left still rested on a metal cane. "I'm John. So great to meet you."

Sherlock studied the man. He was not in uniform but in civilian clothes with sturdy blue trousers and a woollen jumper. "Who are you?" he snapped. "You do not belong on this ship."

John's smile fell a little. "Oh?" he said, sounding rather sad. "But… I live here."

"You live here?" Sherlock shook his head. "How can you live here? Where did you come from?"

John shrugged. "I was in the officers' lounge just now. Sorry to have startled you, by the way. I'd dropped my stick." He held the cane up for Sherlock, looking rather proud.

"Your stick?" Sherlock took a step back. "What is going on here? You're not making any sense… Mycroft!" He looked over his shoulder as if expecting his brother to be lurking somewhere behind him. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Mycroft's head appeared on the nearest screen and he snorted. "Sherlock, you're a scientist. Shouldn't you at least notice when you encounter a completely new species?"

"What?" Sherlock stared at his brother, then turned to look at the small man again.

John cocked his head, eyes wide and questioning.

"Oh…" Sherlock gasped, his eyes widening. "You're a dog. But how can you be? Humanimal hybrids are illegal. And notoriously difficult to breed." He raised his hand as if to touch John but stopped himself. "Who made you?" he asked, accusingly.

John just tilted his head further, but Mycroft answered: "He evolved."

"Evolved?" Sherlock spat. "That's not possible. That would take thousands… millions of years…"

"Well, it has been three millennia," Mycroft said. "And he had a little help along the way…"

"It's been what?" Sherlock almost screamed, whirling around to face the screen again.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You still hadn't realised?"

"It was supposed to be 18 months… Just until we returned to Earth. It was a minor transgression... " He stomped his foot hard, causing John to jump back in surprise, letting out a startled little yelp.

Sherlock ignored him and continued. "They can't just change my sentence. Not without waking me up. And besides… Why keep me on the ship? If I was to remain in prolonged stasis for… for millennia… I should have been transferred to a terrestrial facility."

"It wasn't planned," Mycroft said, looking slightly pained by the admission. "I had to keep you in there for your own safety."

"My own safety?" Sherlock seemed to calm down almost instantly. "Of course. Some kind of attack or accident. Killing the entire crew. But that wouldn't necessitate me being kept dormant for this long. So you were waiting for something to dissipate. Radiation…? No… a disease." He looked over at John. "And he must be the descendant of something from one of the labs…" Then he turned to the screen again. "But how did you survive, brother?"

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment before he said: "I didn't."

"Oh…" This time it wasn't a triumphant cry, but rather a soft breath of realisation. "So you're… in the computer now?"

"It would be more accurate to say that I am the computer," Mycroft said. "I took precautions before my death, making it possible to upload my memories and consciousness into the system."

John cautiously stepped closer to Sherlock. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock's eyes had gone strangely empty, but he blinked a few times and then focused on John. "Yes…" he said, doing a sort of small dismissive wave with his hand as he turned and made his way back to the mess, sinking down on the first available chair. "I'm… I'm fine."

John followed and stood behind him, then almost made Sherlock jump as he rested his chin on his shoulder. Sherlock seemed conflicted for a moment, then raised his hand and patted John's hair lightly. "No, really," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. I mean… I'm slightly disappointed that not even death could get my brother off my back, but… I suppose it's marginally better than being all alone on the ship."

"Oh, but you're not alone," a high voice rang out behind them. Sherlock almost knocked John over as he jumped to his feet and turned around.

"You!" he cried. "Why aren't you dead?"

"Oh, but I am, dear," the man said, sauntering towards them. He raised a hand and pointed to the metallic H on his forehead. "I'm a hologram, see? Did you think I'd abandon you for something as petty as a slight case of death?"

John glared at the hologram, growling and baring his teeth. "Who is he?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the man. "My… colleague."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. How many times have I told you to call me Jim?" he pouted. "And surely we were more than colleagues. We were…" He seemed to consider the word, almost tasting it. "Partners!"

"We worked in the same lab," Sherlock spat. "By necessity. Not by choice!"

Jim let out an exaggerated gasp and put a hand over his heart. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, failing to sound hurt. "How can you say such things? Such cruel things?" Then he broke down laughing.

"As we can only sustain one hologram at a time, I selected Professor Moriarty as the most intelligent crew member," Mycroft declared. "Not only because I know how easily you get bored, little brother, but also because he may assist you in your journey back to Earth."

"You mean you selected the one person on this ship capable of getting more on my nerves than you?" Sherlock spat, glaring at the image on the screen. "Thank you, brother dear."

"I suppose the course of several thousand years made me forget how ungrateful you can be," Mycroft answered. "Should you not let your judgement be clouded by sentiment, you would see the merit of my decision."

"I don't like him," John claimed, crossing his arms.

"Liking him is entirely irrelevant," Mycroft pointed out. "Intelligence will be of more use than a delightful personality."

"I don't need him." Sherlock almost crossed his arms too, but changed his mind. Instead he got up and began pacing, not looking at any of the others. "I don't need his assistance. Assistance for what? I'm not a pilot. The ship is perfectly capable of flying itself. Unless…" He paused. "Unless there's still something left of the disease that killed the crew, but then… Then you would have kept me in stasis…" He glared at Mycroft. "What aren't you telling me? What's wrong?"

"Oh, poor Sherlock," Jim teased, still laughing. "Stasis must have had a detrimental effect on your intellect. You're not usually this slow. When the outbreak occurred, reports were automatically sent back to Earth. The ship's emergency protocol took over and set us on a course for an unpopulated quadrant of the galaxy. Now that the ship is finally completely decontaminated, Red Beard can return home, but…" He made a dramatic pause, looking around at the others, but when neither looked impressed, he sighed and continued. "Since we have been travelling at 70% maximum speed for…" He pretended to check a non-existing watch on his wrist. "... 2901 years, unless we figure out how to make Red Beard move faster, you will be 2064 years old, give or take, by the time we return."

John blinked. "Do humans get that old?"

"No," Sherlock answered, frowning at his brother. "I would have to go into stasis… Again…"

"Yet according to my calculations, it should indeed be possible to make the ship accelerate," Mycroft said. "With Professor Moriarty to fill in the gaps in my theory and your helping hands, Sherlock, it should not take more than a couple of years to return to Earth."

"So you'll only be half a relic when we return to Earth," Jim said, delighted. "I wonder if your worth as an antique will make up for your utter uselessness as a scientist in a world that left you behind aeons ago."

"Drop dead!" Sherlock retorted. "Oh wait… No… You already did that, didn't you?"

John barked out a laugh.

For the first time since he had appeared, Moriarty's smile faltered. "At least," he said, his voice now ice cold, "I'm not a convicted criminal."

"Wait, what?" John said, looking between Moriarty and Sherlock. "This guy, a criminal? Have you met him?"

"I was innocent," Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft frowned. "You were caught coming out of Corporal Wilkes' office."

"With proof that he had been siphoning off funds to his own foundation to back up some of his more… questionable research." This time Sherlock did cross his arms, looking rather defensive. "And I would have brought him down, only Sergeant Anderson managed to compromise the evidence before I could present it to the captain."

"Stupid Anderson," John said, scowling.

"So instead you decided to insult the captain, his entire family and the continent of South America." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"He deserved it. The others were just a bonus." Sherlock couldn't hold back a small smile at the memory.

Captain Carmichael, a tall man with whiskers, took a few steps towards Sherlock, his face scrunched up in anger.

"Captain," Mycroft said, reminding the man that he was also still in the office.

Carmichael stopped, but pointed a finger at Sherlock and turned his head towards Mycroft. "If he thinks I will tolerate this kind of subordination… I could have him sent off the ship. In fact I will! You heard what he said, we can charge him for mutiny and it's not like the crew will miss him…"

"However," Mycroft said, "once we return to Earth, the Board will wonder about the sudden disappearance of our most renowned scientist. Therefore I suggest a milder sentence."

Carmichael huffed, sending Sherlock a contemptuous look. The scientist, however, seemed unconcerned with the discussion.

"If he says three words, they'll understand my choice well enough."

"But, again, you will need him alive and on board of this ship in order to let them hear those three words," Mycroft argued.

"Got a point there," Carmichael grumbled. "But I won't let this go unpunished! It sets a bad example and he's crossed the line many times now. What's the worst we can do without kicking him off?"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, his eyes on Sherlock. "Suspended animation," he said finally. "Combining the charges of breaking and entering with insulting a superior officer, I would say six months."

"Six months?" Carmichael repeated, outraged. "That's not nearly enough. Six years, that's more like it!"

"Come, come." Mycroft got up from his chair and walked over to the captain. "Let us not exaggerate. It is, after all, a minor offence."

Carmichael inhaled sharply, lips pressed together. "Minor, indeed. One would think you're very keen to let your brother off lightly, Counsellor."

"Don't be absurd," Mycroft said. "I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion."

"Anyway," Carmichael said haughtily, "he's going into stasis until we're back on Earth and not a day less than that."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Thank you, Captain. Sherlock… Go pack your things."

Sherlock, who had been watching the exchange dispassionately, got to his feet. "You do realise what this will mean to the Reichenbach project? Without me in the lab, the people of planet Reichenbach will have to go without vaccines for another couple of centuries."

"We'll put other people on it," Carmichael said coldly. "Now get out!"

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to reply, but Mycroft cut him off. "Now, Sherlock." He opened the office door and gestured for Sherlock to move on, giving him a sharp look.

Sherlock glared at him, but complied.

As Sherlock entered the lab, Jim looked up from the sample he'd been working at.

"How did it go?" he asked acidly. "Did Big Brother get you off? Again?"

Sherlock sneered at him. "Mind your own business," he said. He put a box on the table and began gathering up stuff, throwing it in haphazardly.

"Hey…" Jim walked over and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. "What are you doing? Are you being transferred? They can't do that. I… We need you here."

"I tried telling them that," Sherlock said. "But they're putting me into stasis anyway. For eighteen months."

Jim seemed about to protest but was cut off by a happy bark, followed by a beautiful but fragile looking dog, padding eagerly across the lab to butt its nose against Sherlock's knee.

"Victor!" Sherlock exclaimed, kneeling to face the dog, while taking its head between his hands and ruffling its ears lightly. He glanced up at Jim. "Could you give us a moment?"

Jim huffed, but then turned around and left the lab, pausing right outside the door, leaving it slightly ajar so he could listen in.

"I would ask you to stick around until I get back," Sherlock said, gently petting the dog's head. "But I guess we both know that is not going to happen. I'm sorry I won't be here, but there's nothing I can do about that."

Victor sat down and whimpered softly.

"I know," Sherlock said, stroking down the dog's back. "It sucks. It really does. I'm going to miss you. You were my best friend on this ship. My only friend, probably."

Whimpering again, Victor nuzzled Sherlock's hand and then looked up at him, blinking.

Sherlock sighed. "So I guess this is goodbye." He hesitated, then held out his hand. Victor put his paw in it, then leaned in and licked Sherlock's cheek before getting to his feet with a soft groan and trotting away, tail and ears hanging down dejectedly.

…

"Hurry up, freak," Sergeant Anderson drawled, tapping his foot as Sherlock packed away the last of his belongings.

Sherlock didn't even look at him, but just huffed before closing the locker with a loud clang that made Anderson jump in surprise. Then he turned on his heel and marched down the corridor, the sergeant having to jog a bit to catch up, while also trying to give the impression that he was the one leading Sherlock to the stasis pods.

"So is it going to hurt?" he asked once he had adjusted to Sherlock's fast pace.

"Haven't you ever travelled interstellar?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No…"

"I won't feel a thing," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

Anderson snorted. "Yeah, obviously. I bet you don't know either how that thing works. You're just showing off again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, without even pausing for a breath: "The stasis room creates a static field of time. Just as X-rays can't pass through lead, time cannot penetrate the stasis field. So although you exist, you no longer exist in time and for you time itself does not exist. You see, although you're still a mass, you are no longer an event in space-time. You are a non-event mass with a quantum probability of zero."

"Oh, simple as that," Anderson said sarcastically.

"Yes, simple as that." Sherlock stopped in front of the heavy door with the small but thick window. "Now please... Let me in so I can cease existing in the same time-flow as you. Your idiocy is suffocating me."

Anderson rolled his eyes and gave the door a rather sulky look. "It's not my fault, you know," he said.

"Wrong," Sherlock said. "It is very much your fault."

Anderson glared at him. "What was I supposed to think when you came out of that office? You're always acting suspicious. I thought I finally knew why."

"You could have listened to me when I told you not to open the canister. By subjecting the solution to the atmosphere of Red Dwarf, you compromised the pheromone and destroyed the evidence that would finally have put an end to Wilkes' plan to abuse most of the female crew." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's too late now anyway. Just get on with it."

"Right..." Anderson looked a little contrite as he opened the door to the stasis pod. "There you go."

Sherlock sighed and stepped inside. He turned to face the door and closed his eyes, retreating into his mind palace.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, startling Sherlock from his musings. "Standing there and staring into the void will not hasten your return to Earth. Neither will an endless discussion of whether you were guilty or not. I suggest that you and Professor Moriarty get to work."

"Oh yes, Sherlock," Jim purred, winking at him. "Let's pick up where we left off."

"Can I help?" John asked.

"Sure," Jim said. "Go sleep in a corner and we'll call you if we need anything fetched."

"We have evolved, you know," John said, baring his teeth.

"You could have fooled me." Jim whirled around and disappeared in the direction of the lab.

"So there are more of you?" Sherlock asked, studying John more intently.

"Of course," John said. "Just not on the ship..." He sighed. "They all went off in the shuttles. Those that survived the great tick plague."

Sherlock, who had been about to follow Jim, stopped. "Then why didn't you go with them? Why did you stay behind?"

"I couldn't," John said with a sigh. "I had to take care of my sister..."

"Your sister?" Sherlock took a step closer to him. "She was ill? She died?"

John nodded quietly, his eyes turned to the floor. "I failed."

"Failed? How?" Sherlock hesitated, then put a hand on John's shoulder. "What could you have done?"

"I should have saved her," John said. "But I couldn't."

"Well... No... If she was that ill, she must have needed a doctor..."

John frowned. "She had a doctor."

"But..." Sherlock gaped at him. "But you're a... a dog..."

John looked up at him, frowning a little. "And a doctor. As I said, we evolved. We built our own civilisation. And we're spreading out to other planets to offer our help to other species."

"Oh…" Sherlock seemed to need a moment to process this. "So… A doctor? I think you could be useful in the lab."

"Thank you," John said. "I'd like to help."

"So if you'd actually get to it," Mycroft said, "I can contact Earth, explain why the ship made such a long detour and request permission to land in, say, another eighteen months."

When Sherlock and John entered the bridge, Jim was already there, glaring at the main controls.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, his concern not quite genuine.

"I... can't... touch anything!" Jim cried out, plunging his fist into one of the screens. "How am I supposed to do anything if I cannot even push a button?"

John looked amused. "You're a hologram. What did you expect? Everyone knows you're only an image."

"A projection capable of speech and holding your personality patterns," Mycroft corrected. "It will be quite unnecessary to touch anything anyway. All you need to concern yourself with is this." His face disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a swift string of calculations.

Still sulking, Jim focused on the screen and soon began rattling off numbers, which Sherlock typed in with his left hand while calling up and analysing an endless stream of schematics and diagrams on three other screens.

For a while John stood staring at him open-mouthed. Then he cleared his throat and asked: "What can I do?"

"Shut up," Jim suggested.

"Can you type?" Sherlock asked, not looking away from the screens. "Do you know how to use a computer?"

"I... I can try," John said, with a doubtful look at the keyboard.

"No!" Jim snapped. "If he messes up even one digit he will ruin the entire thing."

"He can do it," Sherlock said, taking a step to the right to make room for John. "Just press the number he says," he whispered.

John nodded, and for the first few numbers it worked. But then Jim began to speed up, rattling off numbers, and John just stood looking at the keyboard with a rather desperate expression. "Wait!" he said. "Not so fast!"

"He's useless," Jim cried. "Sherlock! You have to do it."

"Go practise over there," Sherlock whispered to John as he took over the keyboard. "You'll soon get the hang of it. Jim's just being a bitch."

…

Sherlock threw a minor tantrum when he discovered that Mycroft had arranged for him and Jim to share cabin 1B on deck 22.

"What does he need a cabin for?" he screamed at his brother's image on the screen. "He's a bleeding hologram. He doesn't even sleep."

"But I do need a place to call home," Jim said, settling on the bottom bunk, smiling smugly. A moment later he was on his feet again, glaring at John who had entered with a large bundle of blankets in his arms, looking around with an eager smile.

"No fucking way," Jim screeched. "I may have lost my sense of smell but no way I'm listening to dog farts all night."

Sherlock stepped up to defend him, but John just turned right around and left the room, looking dejected.

As the humans went to bed, John settled down to spend the night on his pile of blankets outside the door to their cabin. However, when Sherlock turned on the light next morning, John had somehow ended up inside the door. Jim, who had not heard him move, was furious but there wasn't much he could do about it.

They spent the day working on the bridge, John managing to be of a lot more useful than the day before. In the evening he settled down by the door, and in the morning he had moved to the middle of the cabin. Every night he moved a little closer to their bunks and Jim eventually gave up protesting, letting John settle down where he wanted to.

In between Sherlock's tantrums and Jim's fuming, they did manage to get some work done and on the sixth day Mycroft announced that all adjustments were made to achieve the required speed.

Jim and Sherlock merely smiled smugly and shared a reluctant nod of respect, but John was over the moon, unable in his excitement to settle down for longer than two minutes and driving Jim completely crazy as he ran across the room and called: "We did it!" every time someone met his eye.

However, when even John had calmed down a little, Mycroft started talking again.

"I am sorry to interrupt the celebrations -" the eyes on the screen glanced sceptically at Sherlock and Jim in turn, where they were still sitting at the terminals, "- but there is some bad news, too."

John pouted. "Do you have to spoil the moment?"

"I'm afraid so," Mycroft said. "I received a reply from Earth. They are not giving Red Beard permission to land."

"What?" Sherlock jumped to his feet. "Why? What happened?"

"You did," Mycroft answered. "Upon hearing that there was only one survivor after the disaster, and that this survivor had a criminal record, they decided there was only one possible conclusion. You must have killed off the rest of the crew. Almost three thousand years, but they still wouldn't listen to me when I told them that this explains only some of the facts. They are unwilling to harbour a known criminal on a planet that has been through so much."

"That is outrageous," Sherlock cried. "I had nothing to do with what happened on this ship. I was frozen, for God's sake!"

"I know. But they believe that you only went into stasis later, delaying your return in the hope that all family members who could want revenge would long be forgotten. And they think that you programmed me to change the logs to give you an alibi." Mycroft's expression made it very clear what he thought of the idea that Sherlock could make him do anything. "Fortunately, there is one young man at the Base who will listen to reason. After a very long and, to my great surprise, rather pleasant chat, Defence Intelligence Captain Greg Lestrade has agreed to prepare the papers that will clear your name as soon as you have sent definite proof of your innocence."

"I shouldn't have to," Sherlock said, pouting.

"Petulance will not alter the facts," Mycroft replied.

"But what can he do?" John asked, looking desperate. "If they won't believe a… a computer… I mean, it sounds like they won't even give him a chance! How is he supposed to convince them?"

"By demonstrating his case profoundly and indisputably," Mycroft said. "For if he can't, we will be floating around space for all eternity."